


Not In My Name

by Anonymous



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Deception, Espionage, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Mercenaries, Open Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Subterfuge, Suicide Attempt, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: What if Katniss was as much of a stranger to Peeta as he was to her? If the declaration of love really was just a ruse to give them an edge? Forcing them together only gives them more opportunities to conspire and organize the coup.Now fugitives escaped from District 13, Gale, Katniss, and Peeta can rally the resistance without the influence of corrupt despots.Note: Apologies everyone, but I will not be continuing this story.





	1. Chapter One

_**[NOW]** _

Of all the shitty, reckless things I've done, this is possibly the worst of them. Maybe I'm just so embittered and emotionally exhausted that I'm intentionally looking for something that will finally take me out. Either that or I've developed a subconscious conceit of immortality from evading all the things that should have gotten me killed but didn't. 

Though I would imagine kidnapping a POW and escaping what I can only assume was our own tacit imprisonment in Thirteen very likely means we are committing several acts of treason, the punishment of which is far worse than death. It's a little bittersweet. My fantasy of escaping the districts has finally come to fruition, only in a more roundabout way. It was always a fool's paradise and I knew it, but I still keep thinking of how it should feel more meaningful than this. I'd expected there to be more fanfare to it, a liberating moment where I would feel elated or at least relieved, vindicated in some way. Ultimately, I feel nothing. It's come under the wrong circumstances.  _Wasted_.

Gale is slow-pacing behind me, circling like a predator closing in on injured prey as he keeps an apprehensive glare on Peeta's unconscious form laid out on the cot in the corner. When Gale couldn't carry him anymore and we were near collapsing from exhaustion, we found a settlement somewhere outside Thirteen that had long since been abandoned, which we appropriated. There's just enough distance between it and the district that it remained largely untouched by the bombs, or at least the most recent ones. But I wouldn't consider it safe by a long shot. We're on our own, with no resources or allies, in a dilapidated shack with an efficient weapon in our custody that Thirteen would fight to the death to reclaim. We are, by and large, the biggest fugitives Panem has ever known.

Once Peeta begins to stir, Gale's pacing abruptly comes to a halt. My hand instinctively goes to my sidearm, thumb on the safety, but I don’t disengage it. Cautiously, I sink into a seat at Peeta's bedside, pistol poised on my knee as Gale eases back toward the door, hovering just behind my shoulder with his hand resting over the sidearm at his hip. I haven't decided what the best course of action is regarding Peeta, but at the moment, I figure it's probably best if I'm the first face he sees when he wakes up. Prove to him I'm not hiding anything. That I'm willing to face him. It's bound to go better than it did the last time, and at least this time I’m armed.

When he wakes, it's more of a long, unsettling moment where he stares vacantly at the ceiling. He seems to be aware of our presence, but like he's trying to temper himself for human interaction, that he's aware of the struggle inside his own head and refuses to let it take control. I can see him dissociating in the painful rapid dilation of his pupils, the shake in every breath he takes, the frantic jump in his throat in time with the hammering of his pulse. At the very least, he's not restrained. We weren't the ones that drugged him. The point is to prove we're the most trustworthy people in his life right now so hopefully it won't trigger any latent defense mechanisms conditioned into him.

By the time he finally acknowledges us, it's only Gale at first. His eyes slide in his direction and he watches him carefully, gaze shifting briefly to the pistol I have aimed at his head, and he gives a knowing nod. Like he understands and is perfectly okay with a bullet between the eyes if he moves too quickly. My heart sinks a little as an intrusive passing thought whispers,  _Or he was expecting exactly this from the likes of_  you.

"You rescued me again," Peeta says at length, focusing exclusively on Gale now.

Gale hesitates. "You're valuable," he says.

"Well. Thank you. You didn't have to, either time."

I can sense Gale stiffen just behind me, and I hear the flexing of his throat as he swallows. The cordiality seems to throw him, like he wasn't expecting this amid the brainwashing, that it's a trick of some kind. I can see a silhouette of his reflection in the dusty window across from me, a shadow of his uncertain expression as he responds only with a stiff nod. 

When Peeta's eyes cut to mine, my muscles tense and my thumb instinctively disengages the safety on my gun. It isn't exactly discreet, so everything about the gesture probably seems like an open threat, but I make a show of keeping my finger outside the trigger guard. I'm definitely not going to kill him. But I'll injure if I have to. 

"I suppose I'll fare better with you than with them," he says, a note of pragmatism cutting through what's left of his voice. Then he closes his eyes and squints away, as though looking at me for too long is like looking directly into the sun.

Considering what Peeta has come to believe about me in recent weeks, it suggests he's been subject to some obscene horrors in Thirteen as well. So much for rescuing him from the Capitol. An uncomfortable knot of pity twists in my gut at the thought, and I'm not even thinking, I'm just reaching forward to take his hand in mine, a frivolous instinct to offer comfort. 

I never get the chance to touch him though, because the way he recoils from me is almost a full body convulsion, skittering away and shrinking into the corner like a frightened animal. The alarmed yelp that comes out of him sends a shudder up my spine, my previous feelings of sympathy replaced by slow tendrils of revulsion. Not for him, but for whatever was done to him that would inspire this kind of reaction. One would think I was the one who personally tortured him all these weeks. I suppose in some indirect way, he feels I did. It stings a little to see him respond to me this way, but honestly, I was expecting something like this. And what progress I've made! Mere weeks ago I would have responded to this sort of thing with tears and isolation, likely run away and locked myself in a closet somewhere. Instead I just calmly withdraw my hand and holster my gun.

"Don't," he whispers, hand trembling as he brings it up to shield his eyes. "Just - I'm trying."

"I know." And I do. 

He pulls his hand away from his face and regards me suspiciously, nodding toward my holster. "May I stand, or are you gonna shoot me if I do?"

"Take it slow."

It's a painful process between the consistent sedation he's been under and the utilitarian prosthetic Thirteen’s doctors gave him, but he manages to drag himself to his feet. Every instinct in me urges me to help him, but I think better of it, instead rising slowly to my feet to back up and give him space. Gale and I both are making a point of keeping our hands in plain sight, not making any sudden movements.

When Peeta looks at me again, it's with slight bewilderment, as though he's trying to remember. Or like he's seeing me for the very first time. And maybe he is, a little bit. He seems lost and slightly dozy, and every word he's said so far has been a little jumbled. He's still mostly under the effects of morphling from the reverse hijacking attempts, his senses and emotions dulled. It's safe to assume he won't be this agreeable once it fully wears off, but I'll worry about that when the time comes. 

"Were we really intimate?" he asks cautiously, as though trying to sort out whether something he just dreamed was based in reality.

It's probably the worst question to ask at the worst time, but at least he's not choking me. I'm not sure which of us is more uncomfortable, but Gale gives away nothing, only maintains a stiff posture. Gale may have developed a bit of an inevitable aversion to Peeta during the Games, but it's one-sided and trivial and he knows it. Peeta doesn't know him well enough to have any quarrel with him, and I think Gale is at the very least flattered by the fact that Peeta considers him... _safe_. And for what it's worth, Gale did rescue him. Twice.

I give a tight-lipped nod. I can see Gale in the periphery of my vision, suddenly very interested in a water stain in the wall paneling. 

Peeta seems to consider my answer carefully, eyes partially narrowed and glazed as though trying to will the memory up from some forgotten depth. "Just trying to piece together the real parts. I still don't remember much of anything from before, just what I was told they..." He firmly taps his temple with two fingers, presumably indicating the fabrications the Capitol planted in there. "Can we go outside?" he asks suddenly. "Wanna see the sun again."

Gale and I both nod quickly, and we're out the door as though the goddamn house is burning down. Like it doesn't already look like it was on fire at some point.

It's not near late enough for sunset, but I intend to sit out here with Peeta until it is, just to give him that old comfort, to see if that part of him is still in there. No one should be looking for us just yet, or if they are, there's too much wildlife between us and Thirteen, and anyone Coin would send to look for us doesn't have our hunting and survival skills. We're safe for at least a couple of days, even if we don't intend to stay here that long. Assuming this plan doesn't backfire on us. It isn't lost on me how potentially ruinous it is to be out here alone with an unstable and unrestrained Peeta. 

We're sitting on a damp bed of pine needles for what seems like an age before Peeta speaks again. "Was it - were things pleasant between us?" 

"We were comfortable," I say carefully. "Trusted each other." I'd really rather not continue this line of questioning. I need to be evasive without outright lying, because there's a lot Gale still doesn't know and I haven't yet decided if I want to read him in, of sorts. 

Peeta huffs out a laugh that's really just a sharp exhale through his nose. "We were just starting to understand each other," he muses.

I quickly look up and search his face. He sounds high as fuck, but I'm still curious: "You're starting to remember?"

He shakes his head in a woozy, drunken little movement that's almost comical. "Just deducing as much, from what other people were telling me. Were we really in love?"

Well, shit.

I want to know what Gale thinks of him phrasing the question that way, if he wonders why Peeta didn't ask if  _I_  loved  _him_ , but if it throws up any red flags for him, he doesn't show it. Still, that really is a more complicated question than it should be. I can't speak for Peeta, but I try to recall all of the emotions attached to the times we were intimate; a distant echo of fleeting bursts of euphoria, excitement, disorienting thrills of arousal during unexpectedly passionate moments. I'm still undecided if any of those things might have been love. After all, I've felt the same things for Gale on occasion. I think maybe both of us just liked the sex. And the comfort that came with it. But then I remember what Finnick said - about Annie, how he didn't know right away, how she crept up on him.

"I don't think so, but it was too soon to tell, really," I answer. "I suppose anything could have happened."

He nods and falls silent again, just long enough for it to be uncomfortable. He appears to relax somewhat, like he's suddenly at peace with something. Probably someone giving him a straight answer for the first time since he can remember. And I intend to keep it this way, considering it's the least I can do for him now.

Gale shifts awkwardly when the silence goes on too long, and as though looking for an excuse to occupy his hands, he wordlessly offers Peeta his canteen. Peeta takes it and drinks, then passes it to me.

Then, as candidly as though he were continuing some conversation we were already having: "So what did you find on Coin?"

I think the question startles Gale and me both, because it's such an abrupt change of course that we're both unprepared for it. It's hard to gauge where Peeta's mind is right now, but his voice has an eerie flatness to it, like he's dazed and trying to work his way through a maze of ever-changing trails of thought. There's also the impression that he's just collecting information, that none of this means anything to him outside of how he might turn it into a weapon to get back at the people who hurt him. Because that would be the highest priority for the Peeta I once knew. And I can empathize way too strongly with that. 

"What's to find?" I ask, passing the canteen back. "You think she’s gonna be a problem too?"

Of course I'm being intentionally obtuse. I know damn well she'll be a problem. There were too many red flags from the very beginning, too many to count. I still remember the first of many disturbing infractions - the discovery of my prep team in Thirteen. The way they were being detained like cattle, chained up and forced to wallow in their own piss, injuries ignored and left to fester, denied any food and water. All for stealing a slice of bread. Then the reaction of the ineffectual, spineless guard who cowered behind restrictions of bureaucracy as an excuse to refuse my demand to release them. His complete impotence and bewilderment when confronted with a scenario that deviated even slightly from the strict routine he'd been ordered to carry out, as though his entire autonomy and ability to make a sound judgment, any hope for even the most substandard of ethical principles, had been robbed by a mechanized regime not meant to be questioned.  _It's not authorized. I have no release orders_. 

Fucking inept fool. If I could go back, I'd kill the son of a bitch on the spot and just take my chances with Coin. How does one even get to that level of complacency, I wonder. How desperate does one have to be to willingly ignore heinous injustices for some superficial sense of security or power without questioning their entire existence, without reconsidering the fairness of the bargain they made, without mourning the loss of their integrity. Is knowingly entering into subservience of an obvious traitor and despot worth exchanging one's humanity for safety? Does it ever pay off? It still shakes me to consider it, trying to work out how all of these presumably wiser, more experienced adults were capable of being manipulated into compliance so easily by a dubious promise of a better life. 

Or maybe what frightens me most of all is wondering if that might be me someday, if I just haven't been convinced because there's some part of a bigger picture I'm not seeing, if no one is really immune to it. If there's any situation or threat or offer that would prove I'm not as incorruptible as I think I am. And if there's anything I can do to protect myself from that possibility or if it's all a lost cause because there's no hope for survival otherwise.

But everything about that incident felt too hauntingly like a facsimile of the Capitol, and it made it that much more infuriating that no one else seemed to be catching on to what I could see plainly. I suppose that's why the revolution we've needed for decades now rests in the hands of a bunch of kids. How utterly pathetic. 

Peeta is laughing, meanwhile. A genuine cackle that scatters the birds in the trees. He flashes a sideways glance at me, and in that one look, I see just how tired and broken he is. His face is colorless and gaunt, with a reddish purple bruising under his eyes. His stubble has grown in a little, thicker and coarser than one might expect and reflecting slightly red in the sunlight. Even unkempt, there's an almost obscene beauty to him, perhaps in the unique way he can manage to look so disarmingly innocent yet ruggedly handsome at the same time, even if it is rather ghastly so at the moment. But underneath all that, behind the clouded look in his eyes, there's also something conspiratorial and determined, like he knows I'm being fatuous and he's just as determined as I am to blow the whole thing wide open.

"We wouldn't be sitting out here if you didn't at least suspect something," he says once he's caught his breath. Even laughing seems to drain him, but nevertheless, he sounds strikingly lucid all of a sudden. "Figured you just found something definitive you could use against her if we get caught. Or are we just sitting ducks who have taken an immensely reckless risk with no leverage?"

Gale and I exchange a look. That's a conversation for another time.

"What exactly do  _you_  know, then?" I ask. Because I'm genuinely curious. Between how scrambled his brain is and the drugs and isolation he's been under, I'd love to know what specifically tipped him off, and it's probably best to coax information out of him while his tongue is still loose.

"Well they certainly didn't want you and me talking to one another, that's pretty clear. The excuses for why kept changing a little too frequently for comfort. Not sure if you caught on to that."

This gives me pause, and I have to stop and really reflect on our interactions since he was extracted from the Capitol. In retrospect, it is pretty suspect. Another blatant misdirection I should have caught onto immediately. Even after it had been established that there were ways of keeping the conditions right so he wouldn’t feel threatened enough to attack and was constantly sedated anyway, it felt like every time I requested to see him I had to pass several official requisitions through multiple levels of the hierarchy just to watch him twitch and shout obscenities at invisible monsters through the glass. And even then, the proper process of escalation seemed to be dependent entirely on whim and changed daily.

"They said it was to protect me," I say, my sneer creeping into my tone at how absurdly unoriginal and transparent it sounds when said aloud. 

He shakes his head. "It was to protect  _them_."

Gale's head snaps up. "But from what?" he asks. He doesn't bother hiding his intense curiosity; Gale especially has a vested interest in this sort of thing. 

"They didn't want us talking because they didn't want us to corroborate our stories," Peeta says. "Or exchange information. But mostly, they didn't want me to start remembering, or to recover. They wanted to keep me sick enough to invalidate anything I might have to say, keep me from being lucid enough to put things together. Had to make some...bargains. To get you in for a chat and straighten things out."

Gale's face grows grim, and he shoots me a warning glance over Peeta's head. Something churns in my gut, and I'm nauseated suddenly, I can feel the water I just drank starting to come back up.

"Peeta, you didn't..."

He chuckles to himself as though he's just heard an inappropriate joke. "No, no, nothing like...like  _that_. More like negotiating with my  _informed consent._ Thirteen's shrinks are either incredibly morally oblivious in their intellectual curiosity or incredibly barbaric. Either way, they're pretty curious about the resilience of the human mind and how much trauma it can endure under the influence of hallucinogens. It was a worthy price to pay for necessary information."

It's meant as a consolation, but I'm not entirely convinced it's better than what Gale and I had originally assumed.

More than anything, I want to feel guilty that Peeta has made these sacrifices for me, but I'm certain they weren't actually made for  _me_ , but rather a cause. I haven't had enough time to sort out my feelings about him to figure out if that really even matters.

"Guess that confirms what we already knew. Thirteen's just as corrupt as the Capitol." I only sound disappointed because I'm sick of being right all the fucking time.

Peeta nods. “Doesn't it though?” he says dryly. “If they were truly the heralds of benevolence they'd have you think they are, they wouldn't take advantage of something like that. My bargain was really more of a test than anything, but it turned out in my favor."

"At the price of your sanity, though? Was that really a worthwhile bargain to make?" I challenge.

He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, comically exaggerating the gesture in the way a Capitolite would. "They'll regret it soon enough, won't they?" He stops fidgeting with the stick and stabs it into the soft earth as though to underscore the point. "This is war. They're breaking the rules, and so should we."

On the other side of Peeta, I sense a distinct tension from Gale. He's become especially withdrawn, and I swear I can hear the grinding of his teeth. It's unfortunate that we're so often proven right in our cynical expectations of corruption lurking around every corner. But I'm still unsure of his opinion on Coin, if his cooperation and accessibility with her was just a ruse to better dissect her motives and learn how to think like the enemy as he so often did of the Capitol, or if he had truly placed his trust in her regime. Things are still a little dissonant between us because of that uncertainty. A part of me is trying to gauge his reaction now, to see if how he's taking this information might lend any insight.

At least he's with me now, having grudgingly heeded my warnings enough to go along with this plan, but I'm still reluctant with my trust. I think of Peeta, of Johanna, even, of all the people who lied to me or omitted the truth in some way as a part of some bigger plot I was left out of. It's been happening a little too often for comfort. I don't know if I can be as forgiving with Gale if he's been doing the same. 

Peeta shifts painfully between us then, adjusting his prosthetic before leaning back on his palms, squinting out at the rays of light coming through the trees. "By all accounts, we'll be presumed dead," he continues thoughtfully. "They'll assume I wasted you both when they can't find us after a while. I don't see any reason for us to not use that to our advantage. I can think of a lot of things that three dead resistance fighters might get away with."

_Resistance fighters_.

It's a little jarring to hear it in this context, probably because I’d given up on that pipe dream around the time the Quarter Quell was announced. Now I'm recalling the first time he used that term to describe us, thinking upon it fondly with a renewed sort of hope that has the potential to be dangerous.

At the time, we were beginning our Victory Tour, under the auspices of safety and surrounded by the Capitol’s gaudy charade of decadence, and it had clashed so heavily with what he was suggesting that it seemed absurd in the heat of the moment. I remember it clearly because it was the morning after I realized that Peeta and I were condemned to this ruse indefinitely.

 

_**[AND THEN]** _

 

We're bound for District 11.

I'm not expecting to run into Peeta because I'm told he takes less prep work than me, so it comes as a bit of a shock when I absently turn through the wrong door and walk in on him, fully nude. Portia is perched on a low stool in front of him, her concentration absorbed in carefully peeling a swathe of paper of some kind from his leg - the intact one - and it's left the outline of a design on his thigh. 

It should be suggestive, but it isn't, somehow. Probably because of how clinically detached Portia is in perfecting the placement of the stencil and how enthralled Peeta is with the design itself. Regardless, my face turns what I can only imagine is a shade of nuclear and I hastily whip back around to make a swift exit, but Peeta calls after me to wait. I pause, keeping my back turned as I hear the rustling of fabric. When I turn back around, he's securing a towel around his waist, which doesn't really ease the awkwardness, but it's good enough.

"Portia, can you excuse us for a moment?" he asks.

She nods and politely steps out.

He keeps his eyes on her as she leaves, staring after her until the door is completely shut, then goes to the liquor table and pours himself a drink. I can smell it from where I stand - earthy and aromatic, but robust enough to make my eyes water. It's a little shocking, because I didn't even know Peeta was one to drink. Maybe he wasn't until now.

"It's not that I don't trust her," he says idly. "It's just that I'd rather not compromise her safety by making her privy to sensitive information. Accessory to treason comes with a pretty heavy price these days."

It's a cryptic statement, but he's speaking frankly as though I should know what he's talking about. Something tells me I won't want to, but now I'm curious, deliberating between a quick escape or investigating further. I suppose I've already committed enough treason as it is; no harm in indulging a little more.

"Want anything?" he asks, gesturing toward the assortment of fine liquors. 

I wouldn't even know the first thing to ask for, so I shake my head, then nod toward his now mercifully towel-covered leg. "So what was that, then?" I ask. As disarmed as I am about the  _treason_  thing, I figure the best way to lighten the mood is by addressing why the hell he's randomly naked. 

"I requested to start getting mods," he explains. "Just determining placement for now, nothing getting inked in just yet."

A startled  _"Oh"_  is all I can manage in response to that. Before now I'd always considered the Capitol's body modding trend a bit frivolous bordering on grotesque, but then it occurs to me that the process is an art form, and Peeta is an artist. It makes sense. 

"Not like I'm going to be doing anything extreme like subdermal implants or anything," he says, possibly sensing my lingering disdain. "Just images I drew myself. Branding myself with the Capitol's crimes. Consider it my own version of warpaint."

This really throws me, and I know the shock must be apparent on my face because he quickly looks down and fidgets with the end of the towel, makes a show of fussing over the stencil on his leg, swiping at a smudged edge with his thumb. It'll probably have to be reapplied anyway, though I know nothing of tattoos.  
  
I also realize this is the first time I've ever seen him in any state of undress since he acquired the prosthetic, and I find I have a hard time not staring at it. Before now I'd only ever seen a glimpse of the lower part of it, but now I've seen the whole thing, the intricacy of its sleek black mechanics and faint blue glow of fiber optics. They had to replace almost his entire leg, only half of his thigh left. Between the wound Cato inflicted on him and then the bite from the mutt, the entire limb was destroyed beyond repair. Originally I'd thought it was just a simple detachable prosthetic, but from the looks of this thing, it's integrated directly with bone and nerve. It's strikingly sophisticated and I have a growing impulse to ask him how it works, to inspect it closer, but he's shuffling under the scrutiny so I abruptly avert my gaze upward.

"I've actually been meaning to talk to you about something," he says, and something in his tone causes my heart to drop into my stomach.

He must see my face blanch because he flashes a reassuring smile, the same one from the mud bank that day in the arena. It's a little more reserved this time, perhaps marginally tragic. The familiarity of it is comforting, at least.

"Listen, I know you and Haymitch have some sort of...symbiosis worked out. That you share things with each other. Things I imagine you feel you need to exclude me from. It's okay - I know we haven't gotten to know each other well enough for you to entirely trust me yet."

"That's not true - " I begin to interject, but he swiftly closes the distance between us, then reaches out to warmly squeeze my shoulder. It's his expression, rather than the sudden movement that pulled me up short - it’s openly worried; the same raw, sickly nervousness I saw on him when we were being transported from the Justice Building to the train after the reaping.

"I've built this entire reputation as some naive lovesick romantic," he says, pressing his glass against his temple and retreating again, seemingly to give me space. "The lie was supposed to give you an edge. And I figured if I was as non-threatening as possible, it'd earn me some points with the audience. Eventually give me a swift, inconsequential death so I wouldn't have to play their twisted game. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to die in there. And now that reputation I manufactured is still working as much in my favor as it is backfiring.”

I blink rapidly to clear the black spots swimming in my vision, feeling as though the floor has just given out beneath me. I have to repeat his words in my head a few times just to process it.  _The lie_. So the whole thing really was just an elaborate ploy. A discordant wave of multiple emotions washes over me as I accept this; relief, shock, alarm. Maybe a little betrayal, but not out of disappointment. More out of my own doubt in myself, that I didn't stick with my initial instinct, that he couldn't trust me enough to let me in on the ruse from the beginning.

He lowers his glass from his temple and sags against the table behind him, eyes narrowed as though he’s reflecting on how precisely to continue. Perhaps steeling himself with liquor. He appears to be musing to himself more than anything. My heart is slamming, meanwhile.

“Regardless. It's only fair for me to be as straight with you as possible from here on out,” he says, and he sounds -  _wounded_ , almost. Plainly apologetic, like he sincerely regrets having lied to me and he's anxious to get it all out in the open now. “It helps neither of us for me to keep lying to you when I'm already lying to everyone else. I just - need someone to share this charade with, I can't keep doing this alone. It wasn't supposed to go on this long, you know?"

_So even Haymitch doesn't know, then,_  I think.  _He thinks it's all real._

Peeta softly pounds his fist against the liquor table, frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm telling so many lies now, I can't keep them straight anymore."

This seems to be said more to himself, really, but I feel a pang of empathy for him all the same. Because I know what that's like. Maybe not his specific situation, but feeling all alone with an unfair burden and little support to carry it.

"I never wanted to make you uncomfortable or embarrass you. If I’d known all this would..." He gestures wistfully, a note of concession on his face, like it couldn't possibly matter. "I never intended to rope you into a relationship you didn’t consent to. There weren’t supposed to be two winners. I kept trying to drop hints for you to just give up on me in there, when I was dying in that fucking cave, but you just  _wouldn't_  -- "

He stops, closing his eyes regretfully. "I don't mean to sound accusatory. You did the only thing you knew was right. And I appreciate all of the sacrifices you made for me in there. It's just - the plan was - you were supposed to come back to freedom, not...all  _this._ "

I’m grateful that he’s more interested in contemplating his drink than the expression on my face, because I don’t know that I can hide my shock. The air feels too heavy, too tight, and aside from this massive confession that he’s been lying to me this entire time, there’s something else that puts my nerves on edge about him being so candid about this here, now.

When he first declared his love for me, I’d thought it was a tactic he was using against me. I spent a good amount of time in the arena still not buying it, assuming he’d invented this charade to disarm me and would eventually use it to kill me. A little bit of that fear is beginning to creep back, or rather a memory of it, and I catch myself assessing the room, eyes flicking as discreetly as possible to anything that might be improvised as a weapon. Needlessly. It's an old instinct that never died, even though I know consciously that he isn't a threat, that this isn't a trap, it says so in how open he's being with me now.

“I feel so lost now," he continues. "Trying to stay in character and forgetting what parts of me are real. I made a really sloppy decision. But this...subterfuge, it has an expiration date. Snow’s never going to let us get away with this, Katniss. You know that, don’t you?"

He pauses to finally inspect my face for the first time, tentatively waiting for a reaction, a response of some kind. There’s an edge of reluctance in the way he looks at me, his entire posture, even, as if he knows this has the potential to feel like an egregious betrayal and he’s prepared to be held accountable for it. I really have nothing to say to him, if only because I know he's going somewhere with this, that his coming clean about this is a preamble to something much heavier. Something very relevant to my interests. 

Deception or no, there's a floating absence of weight between my ribs at the way he said “ _us_ ” even though the  _us_  has always ever been manufactured. There may not be an  _us_  romantically, and that's fine. But I'm more curious about his grim acknowledgement of our very real and very shared enemy, that he takes Snow just as seriously as I do and is just as angry about it. That he won’t take this exploitation lying down. That maybe we have a common goal after all, and that namely, I’ve immensely underestimated Peeta’s cunning and how he might prove a valuable ally in a much grander scheme I might never have considered in my wildest dreams. That I'm not alone in this. I should feel a little betrayed, but I'm not. I'm too preoccupied with containing the swell of giddiness I feel at the other thing he’s implying.

He stares despondently into his glass, swirling it around so that it catches the light, maple-colored liquid glittering amber against the crystal. "We're committed to this now," he says, his voice growing so soft that an edge of huskiness creeps in. "For that, I apologize."

"Why would  _you_  need to apologize? I'm the one that failed my end of the plan," I say, finally finding my voice. 

He tilts his head, frowning at me as though I'm being fatuous. "That's unfair to you and you know it," he scolds, shaking his head. "I started all this under the assumption you'd just follow along with the end game I had in mind. That's an incredibly unfair burden to put on you, I know that now. I said what I did in my interview under the assumption that only one of us would come back and no one would have to maintain the narrative. I thought it would help you and give me an easy out. The ruse backfired, and now we're both being punished for my mistake."

He snorts, then drains his glass in one swallow. "I might as well have wrapped up the most powerful weapon in the world in a big red bow and offered it up to Snow myself. I personally handed him the thing that he'd use to destroy us. That's why I intend to make it right, Katniss."

I avoid meeting his eyes, squinting at empty space somewhere in the vicinity of his navel instead.  _Easy out_. As in his death. He was resigned to it the moment his name was drawn. The giddiness I felt just seconds earlier is interrupted by a stab of some hollowed-out feeling that makes my stomach lurch. Tragedy, probably. And he's still looking at me curiously, still expecting some kind of response.

"You really think your death would have been a reasonable trade?" I ask, perhaps a little too aggressively than intended. "This - the political ramifications, they were bound to happen eventually. Tensions in the districts were already boiling over without our interference with the Games. Rebellion was inevitable. Would you have trusted anyone else to spearhead this thing?"

I'm actually surprised the moment the words leave my mouth, because I hadn't given that any serious thought until just now. About myself as a likely candidate for facilitating something I was always so eager to chastise Gale over when he whispered of these things to me on hunts. I really intended to ask Peeta what he meant by 'making it right' but the  _easy out_  thing really threw me, and now I find myself getting a little heated. 

All I can think about is how he really thinks things might have been better off if he'd died in that arena, that he'd throw in the towel without putting up much of a fight so I could return to a  _freedom_  that wasn't really freedom at all. I'd still be beholden to the Games for the rest of my life, complicit in the Capitol's murders as a mentor. No choice. It would have been a sacrifice made in vain. I'm not sure if I'm more hurt that he seems to have never considered this or that he assumes I’d have been content to effortlessly wash my hands of him, just like that.

Or...or. That he was still ready to make that sacrifice even though he was never really in love with me.

Peeta is regarding me with what I think is surprise, but there's something else there, too. Perplexed approval, I think. Or like he's seriously considering my question in a way he hadn't before. He turns and sets his empty glass down on the table and I'm left staring at his back, wishing I'd agreed to that drink after all. I need to sit down.

When he finally turns back to face me, his expression has settled into something more earnest than stern. He's leaning against the table, looking at me patiently like he still expects me to say more. Truthfully, there are so many things I want to say that I’m not sure where to begin. I'm not sure I'd be able to form them into coherence anyway.

"Well. I guess it's too late to contemplate the existential implications now. For what it’s worth, your reaction was totally justified that day," he says.

It’s so inconsequential now, eclipsed by much more serious matters with much greater immediacy, a trivial incident that’s in the past. Recalling it now, I still feel a deep burn of shame at how I reacted, how I’d essentially sabotaged his odds of survival before the Games even began. Even though apparently that was his goal all along.

"It was a stupid fucking thing for me to say. God, it was so  _stupid_.” He flinches regretfully. “Look where it got us. You're being forced into an arrangement I know you never wanted, with a person you barely know. I'm sorry, Katniss. Katniss, I'm really so sorry."

And isn't that rich? That he’s the one apologizing to  _me_. I shrug, swallowing thickly and trying to find my voice so that it doesn't shudder when I answer. "Doesn't matter now anyway," I mumble.

The corners of his mouth tighten in a sympathetic frown. "Just know that I'll never treat you poorly. You can come and go as you like, take whatever lovers you want, if you want them. We can sleep in separate rooms. You aren't beholden to me. I know it's a marriage of convenience."

I nod numbly, shocked that he addresses it with such candor. If I think about it, I can't realistically envision myself with any lovers at all, but I suppose it's comforting to know that the option is there should I ever want it. I imagine I'd extend the same privilege to him.

"That's...remarkably charitable of you," I say cautiously.

"Charitable," he laughs. "It's the least I can do. I won't shackle you. I know you and Hawthorne had something before you ever met me. I never intended to intrude on that."

I don't know if I'm horrified or amused, but I laugh anyway. He seems puzzled by this reaction, and his face falls as though he's afraid he's said something inappropriate.

"No, it's...it's not like that," I say, forcing my face straight because I suddenly feel bad for laughing. "He's just my friend. We just hunt together."

"Oh," he says, and he looks apologetic again - embarrassed, even. "My mistake, I didn't mean to assume."

Normally I'd say the same thing I've said a million times - that it's okay, everyone assumes that about us and I'm used to it. But the way he just lets it go, that he doesn't pressure me into admitting maybe there's something more there, that I'm a girl and Gale's a guy so somehow that automatically makes us soulmates, that he so easily takes my word for it that it's purely platonic and backs off - it inspires a strange swell of affection for him, a strong appreciation I don't think I've had the luxury of feeling before. It feels... _good_. How noninvasive he is. I start thinking that maybe this arrangement isn't so bad after all.

"I just...we should probably try to get to know each other," he continues. "If we want this to be convincing. I do genuinely enjoy your company, so I think we might at least be compatible enough to have something resembling a healthy friendship, at the very least. It'll make things more comfortable between us. More...organic, I suppose."

I nod. "That's reasonable."

I wince inwardly at how formal and ridiculous I sound. I'm still in shock. I don't necessarily feel like I've been led on, he’s still practically a stranger to me and I don’t really have much in the way of feelings for him other than gratitude, but his confession certainly was jarring and I still need some time to process it.

"Why did you do it, then?" I ask abruptly. "The bread, I mean. When we were kids. Seems a long way to go for a complete stranger."

Ah, there it is. I think this whole time, subconsciously, that's the thing that's been eating at me the most.

A flicker of puzzlement wrinkles his brow. "There was a dying child in my backyard," he says, and he sounds slightly offended, as though the answer should have been obvious. "It was the only thing  _to_ do. Anyone else would have done the same, wouldn't they? Wouldn’t  _you_?"

Ah, well. Yes. When he puts it like that. Perhaps he’s right. It’s suddenly not lost on me how ridiculous it is to assume one has to be in love with a person to extend a basic act of human decency to another person, to save a life. But I don’t voice it. Instead, the words are out of my mouth without thinking:

"Your mother wouldn't have.”

I didn't intend for it to come out so deadpan and cruel. I instantly regret saying it. This is last place to be throwing that in his face. But he's -  _laughing_ , and it's not even a cynical laugh, but full of mirth, like it's actually funny. And maybe it is, to him. 

I must still look skeptical, because his face pinches in a painful little grimace of concern as he fixes me with a look so dismally grave that it breaks my heart a little. “Katniss, you have no idea what you looked like back then. You were...in really bad shape. Like you’d already given up and were silently pleading for mercy. I thought for sure your name would be ticked off in the  _deaths over the weekend_ list at the beginning of class. I may not have known you back then, but fuck - when you’re just a kid, seeing that happen to another kid...it really shakes you. Wondering how the adults could let things get so bad, if that might happen to yourself one day, if your own parents might lose all agency to protect you. It makes it too real. Especially when you know you can’t do anything about it, you can just helplessly watch. Until one day, I  _could_  do something about it. So I did.”

He turns and contemplates his empty glass again, then selects a bottle from the table and goes to pour himself another drink but abandons the gesture mid-tilt and shamelessly drinks straight from the bottle instead. It’s a strikingly familiar echo of something I’ve seen Haymitch do on several occasions, and I’d have laughed if it had happened under any other context, but right now it just makes me feel an overwhelming sadness. A depressing glimpse into a possible future, perhaps.

"My mother - she could never exactly be trusted to care for her own children, much less have any shred of empathy for anyone else's," he amends, voice a little haggard from the burn of the liquor. He’s very pointedly facing away from me, and I get the distinct understanding it’s so he can hide his expression, his vulnerability in this moment. As if his confession and simultaneous nakedness doesn’t make him vulnerable enough. "It's a lot of why I was at peace with not coming back. I'd have done anything to escape her... _extortion_."

I think what makes it so devastating is how steady his voice is when he says that last part. It's not said in self-pity or sadness at all, but with a note of pragmatism, like it's the most logical thing in the world.  _Casual_. An indignant heat coils in my lungs, a queasy little feeling at the understanding that his home life must have been some kind of awful if death was more agreeable to him than a guaranteed lifetime of comfort and leisure back in Twelve if he still had to share it with her, and that he can talk about it with such detached apathy. It's especially troubling to consider that he might be  _disappointed_ he's still alive.

I jump when he unexpectedly takes my hand, but he's quickly pressing a glass into it and drawing away to give me space. I'd been so far removed from the moment that I hadn't even noticed him pouring it. I mechanically take a sip, surprised that it doesn't taste as strong as most liquor smells. It goes down easily enough, tastes mildly herbal and spiced, a hint of some kind of fruit I can't name. It helps.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have laid so much on you at once. It's my problem, not yours. Don't worry about it."

_Don’t worry about it_. As if he really expects me to do that. It’s a little chilling that he’s so determined to suffer his struggles alone, that he expects absolutely no support from anyone. It tells me he’s used to it that way. That big, complete family of his and he’s this conditioned to emotional solitude.

I take what’s meant to be another cautious sip of my drink but I just keep swallowing it down, and suddenly the glass is empty. Peeta takes the glass from me and pours me another without even being asked, and I gratefully accept. Then he's pulling a fancy ottoman up, gently guiding me onto it, and I let myself be maneuvered, too numb to really move on my own.

"Katniss, are you okay?" he asks at length, and he looks genuinely concerned. "I feel like I've offended you."

"No, of course not," I say, or try to, but it comes out a little slurred.

I've never been one to drink so I'm already feeling the effects of the liquor, a warm buzz seeping through my chest, warming my extremities. I quite like this feeling, actually. It's a lot like tipping back into the gentle current of a stream, numbly letting the waves carry you along. Distantly, though, I'm relieved, because it means I don't have to feel guilty anymore. I don't have the burden of obligation to reciprocate any feelings anymore. We can approach whatever tenuous relationship there is between us more organically, perhaps as close to natural as if we’d met under more amenable circumstances.

Mostly I'm just worried about him, wondering if he has anything positive in his life when I can sense he needs it so badly. Some approximation of a support system. I wonder if his brothers ever even visit him, how different his life might be if they were as close as I am with Prim.

“So about Snow,” he says, clearly eager to change the subject. "We’ve got to work out some kind of contingency plan. An exit strategy, perhaps. No matter which way we play this, he’ll never let this slide. Even if we play this charade flawlessly for the rest of our lives. Call it a hunch, but I’m sincerely doubting we’re even going to be granted a  _rest of our lives_."

I try so hard not to blink that my eye twitches. I feel like I should tell him about Snow's visit to my house, about the threats he made. About how none of us are safe. But that seems irrelevant now, because something tells me Peeta is already aware of this. Maybe not the visit, but he definitely knows we're in a lot of trouble, and I think this was the main reason he initiated this conversation in the first place. That bombshell of a confession was just secondary. A preface to the real agenda.

"We embarrassed him. We showed the districts that it's possible to exploit the emotions and fanfare that fuel the Games to bend the rules. They're going to run with it, and he's going to hold us responsible." He pauses, considers something for a moment. Then: "Do you ever listen to your prep team?"

It's such a random question and an abrupt change of course that I blink several times, trying to make sense of it. "You mean their shallow gossip?"

He nods, and his expression is so sincere that it's a little unsettling.

"I - no, why would I?"

"Because there might be valuable information in there, Katniss. They have eyes where we don't. They have freedoms we don't. Sometimes that shallow gossip can hold useful intel, especially when a lot of the time they can’t know what they’re revealing. The ignorance of privilege, it will always be the Capitol’s biggest weakness. Learn to read between the lines. Don't take anything they say for granted.  _Use it_."

_Intel_. Christ, he sounds like a fucking spy. Where did he learn all this, I wonder? I’ve never seen this side of him, never would have expected this. I should still be reeling from being lied to over time, but instead I only find myself trusting him more. I can't help feeling a renewed sense of hope, invigorated by how effective we'll be as a team. He's an excellent actor, knows perfectly well how to leverage emotions and misdirection. It is how he survived among the Careers in the arena, after all. I feel like a fool for not having considered it sooner, for having underestimated him so completely. 

Of course my initial instinct is to argue, to question what intel my prep team could possibly have that would mean anything to me, but I realize he may have a point I might never have considered. I've built up such a bias of superiority toward them that I instantly feel guilty once I make this observation. But there are plenty of Capitol-specific things they talk about that I end up filtering out because I think it’s irrelevant to me. ...Plenty of tiny details embedded in there that I might use to my advantage.

He sighs, and his eyes search mine with renewed urgency. "We don't have much time. I don't know what he's going to do, but he's going to retaliate. It's inevitable. If I had to wager a guess based on how I know he operates, it won't be before the Victory Tour is over. He's going to at least let us finish this thing out, give us and the districts a false sense of security, entertain the Capitol with our love story. Then once he's convinced we've been lured into complacency, that's when he'll make his move. We need to use that time to our advantage, play along so we can figure out who our allies are in the Capitol and cultivate those relationships to prepare. "

_For revolution_ , I think. We're really talking about this finally,  _colluding_. 

My heart is pounding, and I grip my glass so tightly that the ice rattles from my shaking. The liquor is already slurring through me and I'm pretty sure I'm visibly swaying in my seat, but my spine goes rigid as an abrupt spike of horror slices through me. It only just occurs to me how openly we're speaking about this. Speaking about taking out the Capitol on a Capitol train possibly rigged with Capitol surveillance. Now I know I'm definitely too distracted for good judgment, because it's not typical for me to get so sloppy. My eyes dart around, sure I'll find some Peacekeeper waiting in the shadows to come and drag me off to some cell somewhere.

"This is dangerous," I breathe. "We shouldn't be talking about this here."

He flashes an artful smirk and goes over to a decorative crystal bowl on the table of refreshments, some silly little thing that usually holds candy. He scoops up the contents of it - beads, it looks like. Or berries. There's something off about them, though. Little hair-like wires protrude from them, and when he tilts his palm over the ice pitcher on the liquor table, they tumble into the melted slush and I hear the hiss and static of electrical components shorting out.

Not berries. Bugs.

Peeta must have combed the entire room and ripped every last one of them out.

"Don't worry, they weren't transmitting anything. Take a magnet to them and they're useless junk." He taps his finger to his temple, flashing a shrewd smile. "Prep team gossip."

"And if someone notices surveillance has gone dark and it arouses suspicion?"

He shrugs. "Then it'll send Snow scrambling to find the mole among the people in his employ, and it'll be enough of a distraction that we can have a little more swinging room without too much scrutiny. But no one will suspect us. We're vapid kids delirious with adolescent romance. District simpletons. What the fuck do we know?"

I'm bewildered by how sure he is in all of this, how defiant he is. I never would have expected this from him. Shrewd, clever, and  _brilliantly_ manipulative. My giddiness from earlier is starting to return. "So what's the end game now?"

He fixes me with a sober stare, jaw tightening as though I should know the answer. And I do.

"Put him in the ground," he says. "You and me. The moment we pulled those berries out, we stopped being Tributes and started being resistance fighters. I don't know about you, but I want revenge. This is  _our_ war now."

He closes in on me, reaching a hand out to cup my face as he leans down to place a delicate kiss on my cheekbone. It's fleeting, but his lips are warm and soft and unexpectedly pleasant, so I tilt my face up toward it, unthinking, allowing myself to enjoy it.

It's not so bad, really.

_**[NOW]** _

It’s reassuring, at the very least. Even after being hijacked, an attempt to completely repurpose his entire personality, Peeta still seems to be holding on to his convictions from the very start.

I can feel Gale’s eyes on me, questioning. I guess I have no choice anymore; the time has come that I finally have to read him in. Especially if it means helping Peeta distinguish between which parts of his personality are real and which ones were just constructs from the cover he made for himself.

Strangely, I feel empowered for the first time in a while. We have a common goal, even as hard as the Capitol tried to twist Peeta’s mind otherwise. And here we are: Peeta, with his calculating proficiency of tactics and espionage, Gale, with his unique ingenuity creating traps and weapons, and me, a skilled fighter, a hunter of people now as well as any animal.

My abrupt laugh draws a perplexed look from Gale, but Peeta only gives an intuitive smirk. Like he knows exactly where my mind has gone.

The tactician, the engineer, and the enforcer. What a formidable team we make.


	2. Chapter Two

**_[NOW]_**  

 _When does one stop being human?_  is a question I've thought about a lot over the past couple of years.

It started as a vague, unformed concept when I entered the arena for my first Games. Back then it was more about instinct and survival, consoling myself with the fact that  _it's either them or me_ , justified because I'm just defending myself, my hand forced by an unassailable entity. 

Of course a truly selfless person, a  _truly noble_  person who really wanted to make a statement of resistance against the Capitol's crimes would just leisurely march up to the Cornucopia and stand on display, not fighting back, allow the others to take them out immediately so they won't have to comply with the barbaric spectacle. Or intentionally leave their circle before the gong sounded and let the mines take them out. And it's happened before, too, in past Games. A defiant glare toward a camera before going out on their own terms.

Others resolve to merely survive without killing anyone, hoping to stay hidden well enough that it never becomes a necessity. That's worked, too.

But I did neither of those things. I didn't even consider them. I made the conscious effort to kill for my own survival before I ever had to actually do it.

There has to be some defining moment for every human when confronted with that possibility. Where you go from someone who would never take another life under any circumstances, to someone who would do so without question and without hesitation. I reflect on what my moment was quite often.

It wasn't when I finally had to defend myself in my first Games.

For a very long time, I was convinced it had been. But eventually I had to confront the truth, that my defining moment came long before that. After all, I'd considered killing the girl from District 8 simply for inconveniencing me. Considered killing Peeta out of anger at his defiance of Haymitch's orders to run rather than stick around the Cornucopia, out of revenge for joining up with the Careers when I was still convinced he was trying to kill me.

 _You know how to kill_ , Gale said to me, just before I was carted off to the Capitol.  _Not people_ , I'd corrected. And his response, callous but valid: _How different can it be, really_?

And just then, I'd thought that if I can forget they're people, it would be no different at all. So it was before even then.

Then I considered that time in the woods when Gale and I saw the hovercraft take that red-haired girl and kill her companion. I'd watched in silence, condemned someone to death to spare my own life. But no, that wasn't it, either.

It was years before that. When I was trying to sell threadbare clothes to feed my family. When I was a desperate girl who actually wished to be a little older, because then maybe I could have made a  _bargain_  with old Cray. In retrospect, it's pretty horrific that an eleven year old girl might ever have to think of such a possibility. But that was my turning point. That was the day I lost the minimum amount of humanity a person has to have to be able to say with any amount of conviction, "I'd never kill a person." I can say with almost complete certainty that had I been presented with a choice, to kill someone and be guaranteed another day of survival and safety for my family, I would have taken that option. I wouldn't have even deliberated on it.

 _It's just hunting_.

There's this thing that most everyone in the poorer, starving districts learn at an early age, that the more privileged districts probably never do; take away a person's most basic needs, and after a while, they revert to something resembling a feral animal. Primitive instinct prevails. Everything becomes about finding that next bite of food, that next drop of uncontaminated water, of securing safety and shelter, of shaking that predator on your tail. Sometimes, this means abandoning one's humanity. You don't often have a choice - when things get bad enough, sometimes your brain just...checks out. You're beyond all reasoning, beyond self-sacrifice, operating on base instinct only. You're a wild dog fighting the pack over the rotting corpse of a rat. Because that's all that's left within your capacity of doing.

I think about this often because it's the only way of maintaining my autonomy from the Capitol. It's the only way to distinguish why I kill from why they kill. They kill to control and oppress. I kill to liberate my people.

Gale and I argued recently about preemptive strikes. The difference between taking out those bombers in Eight and suffocating those people in the Nut. At what point does your preemptive strike turn into outright murder? How does one justify what might or might not be a threat, and at what point is it justified to handle it with lethal force?

I consider this now as I stare into the flattened, dead eyes of Soldier York, whose body hasn't yet begun to cool.

Several paces away lies that sharpshooter that was Boggs' second in command. Jackson, I think. She was to be on my squad in our assault on the Capitol. Presumably she was supposed to have my back. I would have been expected to trust her. Possibly follow her orders.

I didn't really know her, but I knew York a little. She was my first trainer in Thirteen. I put a bullet in her throat.

Gale hesitated when it came to him to pull the trigger. It almost got us captured. But he eventually took out Jackson's knees. Offered her the opportunity to surrender. She reached for her comm instead. He shot her in the head.

York was still alive at this point, struggling uselessly as she watched us. A sick whistling sound escaping the hole in her throat as she bled out, trying to breathe and inhaling blood instead. Admittedly I'd been going for a nonlethal shot as well, but I'm still adapting to moving targets with a firearm. If I'd used my bow, it would have been different. It's unfortunate, because a throat shot typically negates any chances of interrogating an assailant. What their objective was, what was to become of us if they'd been able to capture us and return us to Thirteen, how they managed to find us, how long they'd been following us, if there are any more coming.

Whether they could be negotiated with.

Probably a no on that last one.

York was reaching fruitlessly for her dropped sidearm with bloodied fingers when I walked up to her, looked her in the eyes, and put a mercy bullet in her head. They'd have sold us out for sure, but I'm not going to let someone suffocate to death on their own blood. That's a slow and agonizing process, and I still don't think I'm over listening to Cato go as slowly as he did.

I brace myself for the heavy weight of dread that usually billows in like a fog after each kill. I can't pin a definitive moment on when the habit manifested, but somewhere along the way I started subconsciously allowing myself a small, reflective moment after a kill to truly appreciate that feeling so I wouldn't forget what it's like to be human. And somewhere along the way, the sensation stopped coming. I have yet to figure out if it's due to the discovery that some deaths are so justified, no guilt would ever be forthcoming or if the novelty simply wears off after hitting a certain tally and you're completely powerless to resist your transformation into a monster. Maybe later I'll have nightmares about York and Jackson. But something tells me I won't.

Peeta had another episode, meanwhile. Seemed to forget where and when he was and tried to attack me. The morphling must have finally worn off. Combined with the excitement of that little ambush, it was bound to trigger something. Lucky for me, I remembered all of Peeta's hand-to-hand lessons when we began training like Careers for the Quarter Quell, and was able to duck out of his rear naked choke before he could get a good grip and used the momentum of his own weight against him. That was about when Gale came up and placed the single-use breather mask over Peeta's nose and mouth and administered the inhalant that would knock him out. I'm glad we had the good sense to pilfer a few of them from the medical ward when we sprung him out. I'd really rather not have to give him a concussion every time I need to defend myself.

With as exhausted and sore as we both were, it took a joint effort between the two of us to haul him back to that cot. After about a second of consideration, we both got the same idea - free him of his prosthetic to immobilize him. The Capitol surgically removed that fancy cybernetic one from him when he was tortured - if you could call it surgical, though by the looks of it, they might as well have just ripped the damn thing out - and Thirteen treated his infection, dosed him with pain meds, and gave him a standard removable limb. Ill-fitting by the looks of it, too - the damn thing was starting to cut into his stump, greenish-purple bruising blossoming up his thigh.

Gale was a little mortified at helping me wrest Peeta's pants down to get the prosthetic off, but then was stunned into an abrupt daze at the intricate tattoos revealed in the process. Both thighs and his remaining calf covered in colorful ink. A glimpse of the designs on his belly that peered out beneath the hem of his shirt as it rode up. Of course Gale had seen Peeta's sleeves already. They're his most visible work; an almost accusatory reconstruction of the faces of the other Tributes from our first Games, and the mutts fashioned from their likeness after they were eliminated.

I didn't immediately understand Gale's astonishment at the extent of Peeta's tattoos; surely he must have seen at least a little bit of Peeta's chest during the footage of our Quarter Quell? Even as little as I interacted with other people in Thirteen, I still overheard chatter of the boldly treasonous nature of his ink, which was apparently a huge topic of discussion when Finnick unzipped Peeta's jumpsuit to restart his heart. I suppose Gale had significant reason to make a point of paying as little attention as possible.

"Is he completely covered under here?" Gale asked, gingerly lifting the hem of Peeta's shirt up a little out of detached curiosity, then realized the impropriety of the gesture and hastily tugged the fabric back down.

I nodded. "Most of him. His back and ribs weren't finished yet before they threw us in the arena again." A stretch of uncomfortable silence followed as Gale just stared, so I serenely changed the subject. "Hand me one of those anti-inflammatory syringes, will you?"

I'd checked Peeta's medical file before we left, just to be safe. Looked for proper dosages, anything he might have been on that might send him into Johanna-levels of withdrawal if he were abruptly cut off. Turns out the infection from the removal of his old prosthetic wasn't yet completely healed.

Gale rummaged around in his pack and snapped open the protective casing they were in and handed me a syringe, bashfully turning away as I tugged the waistband of Peeta's undershorts down a little, his eyes nervously darting to the glimpse of the tracker jacker swarm winding its way over Peeta's hipbone as I jabbed the needle into his hip. I had to suppress a laugh because apparently  _I'm_  supposed to be the pure one.

Immobilizing Peeta this way is a huge risk, I'm well aware - we'd be either slowing ourselves down or sacrificing him in the event of another ambush, but with Peeta's unpredictable condition, we're dead either way.

Shame, though. We didn't make it to sunset.

There'll be another one tomorrow. Hopefully.

The most obvious course of action now is to get the hell out of here, but that's out of the question. We need to sleep. Possibly eat. Get some food into Peeta somehow. Find a new hiding spot because apparently it was easy enough for us to be tracked this far. But then again, we'd be expected to flee the area. No one would think we'd be stupid enough to stay in such an obvious refuge, but at least neither Jackson or York had the opportunity to relay our discovery back to Thirteen. With our skills and experience, we've got better odds just holding out here and taking out anything that's thrown at us.

I'm watching Gale from the corner of my eye now as he shambles down to a thin stream that runs behind the shacks. Technically I'm supposed to be figuring out what to do with the bodies before they start to attract scavengers, but then I think that might be an effective way to lure our next meal to us. But I'm more concerned for Gale because he's been especially withdrawn and dazed since the ambush. His coloring has been ashen and sickly ever since -

Since he shot Jackson in the head.

I close my eyes and rub my forehead in my palm.

That was his first kill. It's only occurring to me now.

Of course he helped shoot down those bombers in Eight. Crushed those people in the Nut.

But those were just...abstract concepts to him. Collateral damage. Numbers on a damage report later. Not actual people, not lives he had to think about, faces he had to confront. He's never actually looked someone in the eye as he killed them, one-to-one.

Once upon a time, I fretted over how I might explain to him the aftermath of killing a person, how they never leave you. Guess I won't have to now.

I remember distinctly my first kill. Technically I guess it would have been Glimmer or that girl from Four, but the first person I looked at directly, with purpose and intent to actually kill, was the boy from District 1.  _Marvel_. At the the time I hadn't even known his name, nor did I care. All I could think about in that particular moment and the aftermath was Rue's lifeless body. How my revenge and closure was more important than that boy's life, or the devastation of his family and anyone else who might have cared about him back at home.

I was still angry after killing him,  _reckless_  even, not at all vigilant to potential threats because his death hadn't been enough, wasn't  _nearly_  enough to compensate for Rue's death. I was hungry for more blood. Needing some outlet to purge my aggression. Wishing the rest of them would come out and let me kill them. All I could think about was how I wanted to make the Careers pay for Rue's death, how I didn't even feel guilt for having been backed into a corner and made to play the game the way the Capitol wanted me to. I recall that little slight I made toward the Capitol, toward District 1, when I honored Rue's death but unceremoniously handled Marvel's corpse to scavenge his things, to ensure I at least got my fucking arrow back from his body, then left him face down in the dirt where I killed him, undignified and insignificant.

But Gale had no such privilege. He wasn't avenging anyone's death. He also didn't have the certainty of knowing he'd be killed if he didn't do it first. He probably knew Jackson's name when he shot her. Possibly even knew  _her_.

I hear him retching over by the stream and I lift my head, turning just slightly in time to see him crouch down and hang his head between his knees. A lurch of uncertainty coils in me - this is really the last thing I'm good at. Consoling someone. Honestly, Peeta would be better suited for this. He's killed before too, and he has the eloquence and empathy to be able make some relatable appeal to Gale in this moment of need. But Peeta's out cold, and not even Peeta anymore, half the time. So now this task falls to me.

I'm mulling over a more inspired way of saying " _So that was pretty fucked up, huh?_ " as I leave York's corpse, step over Jackson's, and cautiously approach Gale. I intentionally make my footsteps obvious and slow, and I wince when he rises to his feet and pulls his shirt off, revealing the angry lacerations on his back from the time he was whipped in the square. I'll never get used to seeing it, really. It will always make me hurt.

I reach tentative fingers out to trace one of the scars as he finds a patch of his shirt that isn't spattered with blood to wipe his mouth with. My light touch inspires a small jump from him, even though he knew I was there.

It had been a long time after that day he was whipped before he was ready to be touched again. As soon as the initial healing was done and he left my kitchen table, finally braving the world without morphling, he always made a directed effort to keep a certain distance from anyone and avoided crowds like the plague. Even the lightest brush against him resulted in a cringe and a little choked off gasp that would have been a whimper had he allowed it to escape. Even now, sometimes if he's touched unexpectedly, he still shrinks away on instinct, then avoids eye contact for some time after. Because I know he's humiliated by it, this reflex he can't control.

My chest always gives a little ache every time I see it, like my heart has been wrung out. It's a shame I get so twisted in my words as often as I do, how trite I sound any time I try to offer condolences, so I do the only thing I know how to do and slowly - cautiously - draw my arms around him and press myself to his back. He stiffens at first, but then relaxes, hanging his head and holding his shirt to his mouth as he draws several heavy, measured breaths. Then I'm brushing my mouth against his scarred flesh without even consciously making the decision to do it, mapping the stripes with my lips, imagining it might retroactively draw the pain out, maybe soften the nightmares I know he has about it. His whole body deflates on a huff of what I can only parse as exasperation.

"I knew you'd do that," he says hoarsely, voice muffled behind his wadded up shirt.

I scoff, letting my eyelashes snap against his skin so he can feel me rolling my eyes. Because I knew he'd  _say_  that. It's frustrating, how well we can read each other after all these years.

"It's because  _I'm_  in pain, you buffoon," I say, and I mean for it to sound ironic, teasing, but it comes out sounding callous instead. I sigh against his back and try again, softly: "You're so predictable sometimes."

His free hand finds both of mine where they're locked around his middle and he gives them a weak squeeze. "Why would you be in pain?" he asks, finally drawing the shirt away from his face.

Usually this is where I'd be evasive and dodge the question, come up with some stupid transparent answer so I won't have to reveal my true feelings. But I've already resolved that I'm past that now, because that tactic hasn't done me any favors these past couple of years, and I've decided to try out Johanna's therapy instructions - to not censor my thoughts. So instead I go for blunt honesty, and everything that's hurt me in the past few weeks,  _months_ , comes tumbling out because I can't stand how distant we've been, because I've felt so alone in my trauma that I've found myself longing for my old friend who's so close but somehow drifted so far beyond my reach. Because voicing it is like making it tangible and purging it, and because even this small moment of affection already feels like months and months of accumulated affronts and betrayals between us flaking off, one by one.

"Because I can't stand to see you so wounded all the time," I say. "Because you have no idea what it was like to be in the arena. Because you've been unfair to me for doing the only things in my power to keep everyone safe. Because - " my voice breaks, and I don't even care because I want him to feel the heat of my tears against his back - "I can't even figure out who the enemy is anymore. If you're on my side or Coin's. That you used to understand me so effortlessly and now I can't even seem to talk to you without fearing some new betrayal. You were always my support system and now I feel like all we ever do is disagree. You - " I'm breathy now, it's a whispery little gasp, but I choke down a quick breath and blurt out, "You were just going to lie to me about Peeta's propo that night!"

I'm surprised I even mention that last bit, and it makes me realize that yes, I'm still hurt about that, too. As insignificant as it should be in the wake of everything else that's happened since then, the fact that Gale was going to omit being straight with me about Peeta's cryptic - yet eerily accurate - warning in that propo Finnick and I secretly witnessed in the hospital feels especially heinous because Gale and I used to speak so freely with one another. Now he seems convinced I'm so fragile it warrants keeping things from me and lying to me and defending Coin over the same things he's condemned the Capitol for doing.

And maybe also because I'd found an unlikely ally in Finnick, then, too - not only that he had my back in that moment, but because with as twisted as his sanity was at that point, he still had the good sense to suggest we trust no one and pretend we never saw it. Because my closest friend seemed to be making a mockery of everything I've fought so hard to accomplish. 

I swallow abruptly to stifle my gasp at this revelation - it's less about the incident with Peeta's propo and more about how Gale has been complicit in the very injustices I'm trying to unravel. Misdirection and cover-ups to mollify people, in this case. What's worse is I'm not entirely sure he realizes he's doing it. That he's been just as misled as everyone else when he's the last person I'd have ever expected to fall prey to that level of manipulation. Because it terrifies me to think about how if he's susceptible to it, how soon before I fall victim to it too?

Gale's rib cage has stopped moving within my embrace; he's stopped breathing. It occurs to me how awful and selfish it is that I initially came over here to comfort him and ended up making the conversation about me. I'm on a roll now, so I might as well make it worse:

"It's not fair that you use that against me, you know," I whisper, rubbing my face against his back to wipe the tears from my eyes. "You act like it's this criminal offense that I offer affection when you need comfort. What the fuck else am I supposed to do!"

To my relief, he actually laughs. "I suppose you have a point." He turns and reluctantly wraps his arms around me, like he fears I won't allow it. "You really think I'd side with Coin over you?" he asks.

"You have already." I don't even try to hide the accusation in my tone. I'm past running away from things that upset me; now I'm confronting them, holding people accountable.

"That's - it's - that's complicated, Katniss."

"Complicated how? That you refused to let yourself see the writing on the wall concerning Thirteen?"

"Yes."

Normally I'd assume he's just placating me, giving me the answer I want to hear or simply mocking me, but there's something about the genuine hurt in his voice that causes me to pull back and inspect his face. He's looking down at me with such a painful combination of concession and apology that it threatens to bring tears to my eyes again.

"Admittedly I was always aware of her motives," he says, voice humbled with guilt. "Her corruption. I overlooked it because I thought I was using her as much as she was using us. I figured it was as fair of a trade as we'd ever get. Justified because she was the path of least resistance to taking down the Capitol, besides. But I - I was caught up in the delusion. Thinking she might be reasoned with eventually. Or at least pressured into civility after the war was over. And I was  _so angry_ , Katniss. Letting spite fuel my actions and decisions. Not just from years of destitution in Twelve, years of exploitation from the Capitol, but because you were so easily taken from me, too. I was being destructive because I didn't know how to channel my devastation from that loss. Still don't, but I - I'm here with you now, doesn't that count for anything?"

That last bit comes out defensive and heated, like  _I'm_  being the unfair one for not seeing how he was backed into a corner and abandoned. If only he knew how he's been at the forefront of my concerns ever since my first Games, that of all the potential sacrifices I'd have to make as a result of breaking the rules, it's the threat of losing him that's hit me the hardest. I can't help but wonder if I've not been quite as effective as I'd thought in making this clear to him, or if he's simply refused to acknowledge it. At least he's admitting his mistakes, finally, and that  _does_  count for something. 

"How was I taken from you, Gale? I've been here the whole time. It's you that's been pulling away."

He opens his mouth as if to protest, but rethinks it and remains silent. Then his hand is cradling the back of my head, guiding my face into his chest, and I'm wondering how in the hell he can still manage to smell like wood smoke, but it's comforting and familiar and exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"So what finally got you to come around?" I ask, unable to help myself. I'm feigning innocent curiosity, but really I need to know the process behind his reasoning, if it's sound enough that he can be trusted, if it's reliable enough that he won't eventually sell me out. And I hate that I'm still this suspicious of him, that I even have to follow this line of thinking, but it's conditioned into me now; perpetually holding my breath as I wait for the other shoe to drop.

"I don't know, a lot of things," he huffs, but his impatience seems to be more directed at himself than at the question. "The thing with your prep team, after I really thought about it. Your bargain with Coin. The way she openly threatened you. And -"

He hesitates, fingers threading through my hair. It's not an idle, affectionate touch, but more a compulsive tick, like he's doing it to comfort himself, nervous about what he's about to say.

"And," he continues, drawing a shaky breath, "I...overheard some things. You saw how Peeta was starting to drill with us in training, presumably to boost morale in Panem by showing he was fighting for us rather than Snow?"

Now I'm the one to stop breathing. My face is still pressed to his heart, but I give a small nod.

"I have on good authority that she was preparing to send him to the Capitol with us. She was going to put him in our squad. I can't - I can only speculate, but I can't help but suspect she was banking on him killing you, to get you out of the way."

Gale startles with my laugh and I gently tug away from him because I fear he's still too emotionally raw to be jostled too much right now. I think he was expecting me to be angry. And I am, a little, but mostly I'm just amused because I feel the most overwhelming flood of superiority and vindication from hearing this. That Coin's just as much the cowering invertebrate I already knew she was and more. That she will be  _exceptionally_  easy to take down. And a fat lot of good that little plan of hers would have done, considering Peeta at least has some semblance of control over himself. And when he doesn't...we seem to be handling it.

"Katniss."

My laughter abruptly stops because it's a warning tone.

"I just...I was just thinking - it's a lot of why I didn't even argue when you approached me about running, because I was already - I mean - " He struggles for a minute, searching for the right words, then blurts them out so quickly that they're jumbled: "Did you ever wonder about who Snow had lined up to succeed him?"

My heart somersaults. Now there's a question I've actively avoided for some time. I think Snow's hubris had us all convinced he was invincible and would go on living indefinitely. Surely all those Capitol doctors at his disposal had creative ways of prolonging his life, but of course I could see clearly that he was deteriorating all the same. Eventually someone would have to replace him, but as far as anyone knew, there was no chain of command, no official order of succession. As if Snow refused to even install one because the very thought of someone taking the helm after his death was treasonous. Which would of course be ruinous in the event of his inevitable death, and I can't imagine even Snow being that careless.

"I suppose you've given it careful consideration?"

He doesn't stumble over his words this time. "I think Coin is working with him."

Somehow I take this assessment rather well. I think about it, try to recall little tells in her behavior to see if it fits. Maybe. It's possible.

"Your reasoning on this?" I ask.

"I don't know, just a - a gut feeling, I guess. Or rather an educated guess. Come on, is it really so hard to imagine? What better way to placate a country in unrest, to stop the rebellion in its tracks? Her part in the war, it's all...performative, staged. Dupe the people into thinking she's leading them into liberation when really she's just taking the torch he's willingly passing to her on his way out. He knows he's dying. He knows she has the stockpile of nukes. Honestly, who else would even be a likely candidate? What better way to restore all the power to the Capitol and give Thirteen what it's always wanted, especially after Snow's gone and has nothing left to lose?"

Come to think of it, I've never heard tell of Snow's family outside of his grandchildren, who are all still too young. But their parents...? I shudder as a shadow passes over my heart, a dreadful thought occurring to me: would Snow have his own children killed? What became of them that we never see or hear of them? 

But that's a conversation for another day. One step at a time. And I'm supposed to be comforting Gale.

"Well. All the more reason to kill her, then."

I was planning on killing her, regardless. What does it matter if she's working with Snow or not? Their corpses will look the same when I'm done with them. And then I understand that I don't care because it's not surprising at all and it couldn't possibly matter anyway.

I take a halting step back toward Gale, reaching a feeble hand out in what's supposed to be a playful nudge to his stomach, but it ends up being an embarrassingly shy gesture instead. I turn my head as though to contemplate the bodies we still need to figure out what to do with, but really I'm just finding an excuse to avoid his gaze. I'm a compassionate person by nature, but it's always been so hard for me to express it in any way that doesn't seem disingenuous.

"So do you wanna talk about it?" I ask, my voice going eerily mild because I'm frustrated with myself that I can't come up with anything better to say than that.

He turns back toward the stream and crouches down to let the water run over his bloodied shirt, trying to rub the stains out but only making it worse. After a while he just gives up, wrings it out, and hangs it over a branch.

"I actually have nightmares about those people in the Nut," he says softly. "Like - like I'm on the inside, watching it all happen. Like I was born in District Two rather than Twelve and I had no choice but to work in those mines because I refused to be one of the Capitol's enforcers and - I'm always suffocating, in these dreams. I think I really do stop breathing in my sleep. And the rocks are piling up on me and I'm trapped, I can't move, and the worst part is I know I'm dreaming because I've had this dream dozens of times before but I can't seem to wake up. It takes me longer and longer to wake out of it every time. And then when I finally do, I still can't move. I have to remember how to use my limbs, it takes every ounce of effort just to lift my arm. And I - I -  _fuck_ , Katniss. Katniss, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have - I regret it, okay? I regret doing it!"

He can't continue because he's run out of air, and this is only the second time I've ever seen him cry, but it's not the little sheen of mist over his eyes like when we were revisiting the ruins of Twelve. They're spilling down his cheeks now, unhindered, and he doesn't even try to hide them or wipe them away. I wonder how often he's held them back for appearances, how often he's waited until he was alone to let them fall. Or if he ever even allowed himself that.

"Katniss, I'm so sorry - we - fuck, we shouldn't have even gone onto Thirteen's hovercraft after Twelve burned, we should have all just hid in the woods, I'm - "

"Gale - Jesus, fucking - come here."

I've barely opened my arms before he's right back in them, and he just buries his face in my shoulder and  _sobs_. It really is a bit of a shock, but a part of me was prepared for this. He's clinging to me, crushing my ribs almost, and my fingers softly trace the scars on his back. I think he's needed this for a long time. I can tell by the way he tries to control himself, to stifle the helpless little sounds he's making.

"Don't try to hold it back," I say. "You need this, just let it happen. You'll feel better after, I promise."

My head feels off, and there's a queasiness gnawing in my gut. Emotionally tipsy is the best way to describe it, as I try to find my footing among the dramatic shift of the exchange. I should have noticed sooner, honestly; this has been eating at him for a while. I hear it in the tremor in his voice, the way his muscles quiver as he mentions the fire bombing, like months' worth of self-doubt and regret are finally collapsing in on him and he's struggling to keep his head above ground. This idea of hiding from Thirteen rather than going with them - this isn't a consideration made in hindsight. He considered this in the moment, when they first landed to look for survivors. It's only a hunch, but I'm certain of it. That he's spent this entire time second-guessing his decision to go with them, that he should have listened to his instinct to guide everyone deeper into the woods and just play dead. 

"I should have listened to you in Two," he's mumbling into my shoulder, almost incoherent. "I almost got you killed. I have nightmares about that, too. That you - that you didn't survive the gunshot. That the bullet got you in the head and the mob tore your body apart and -"

He doesn't finish because his chest has seized up with a grating hiccup, and then he's gasping like a drowning man struggling for air.

I feel stupid, unsure of what to do, silently rubbing circles into his back because I have no idea what to say to that. I'd suspected he had nightmares about being whipped, and maybe even the atrocities we saw in Eight. But I don't think I expected him to have them about what we did in Two. He was so resolute in his decision at the time, so remorseless after. And I never even thought about the connection it had to endangering my life, that this is what haunts Gale in his sleep. I wonder why he never told me about it before now. He's clinging to me now like his life depends on it, and it occurs to me that there really isn't a damn thing I could say that might comfort him; all I can do is give him this, something to hold onto. 

I keep thinking about that moment we shared in Two's woods, before we took the Nut. How unfair it was that I got caught up in my need for some kind of intimacy and he had to ruin it by equating it to me being drunk. Acting like he was being noble for shutting me out then, when really it was less about any unsound judgment on my part and everything to do with his insecurity.  _I don't know, what's usually going through_ your _head when you're kissing someone, you_ idiot _?_  is how I should have responded.  
  
He thought I was imagining he was Peeta. I was so hurt by that for the longest time - that he thought that low of me, that I'd exploit him for his immediacy when I was wanting someone else. How he never could seem to understand that I love them both in...some kind of way. Maybe not romantically, but a more complicated way that I haven't really had the fortitude to unpack and is probably indefinable anyway.

But he can't run away from me now like he did then. He's only now discovering what it means to need someone in a moment of vulnerability, and maybe it's petty and vindictive, but I feel some small victory at the fact that just now, he knows exactly what I felt like then, how I needed that comfort. Only I'm not so cruel as to deny it to him now, when he needs it the most.

"For what it's worth, I suppose it had to happen," I say after an extended silence. "War really changes the game. Perhaps it was naive of me to ever think otherwise, that playing fair might have ever been an option. But it worked in taking Two, and that's all that matters. You don't have to punish yourself for it forever. But. I probably should have warned you about the nightmares. Those are a little harder to shake."

I really don't think that helped.

"But maybe next time you get a bright idea for a death trap, you can do the honors of going out into no-man's-land to make the fucking speech."

 _That_  helps. He huffs out a wet laugh against my shoulder, and I allow a small chuckle of my own. Gallows humor. Works like a charm every time.

Then I'm taking his face in my hands, lifting it up so he has to look at me, but he turns away from my kiss.

"Gross, I just puked," he mutters. "Besides, is it really appropriate with..." He nods toward the shack where we deposited Peeta.

Fuck. Now comes the hard part. I suppose now is as good of a time as ever.

I release him and move past him, staring vacantly out at the stream. He must sense my reluctance because he cautiously turns and follows, like he's connected to me by some magnetic force, hovering so close but not quite touching. Instead he comes to stand just next to me, his shoulder barely brushing mine.

"You remember in class back in Thirteen, we learned about spies who had gone so deep undercover that they began having identity issues because they truly started believing they were the personality invented for their mission? And then...they couldn't really re-assimilate into civilian life after the mission was complete because they had a harder time of remembering who they really were?"

Gale is staring at me with such a perplexed expression that I realize this was probably the absolute worst segue ever. "Yes," he says slowly, eyeing me suspiciously. "I'm just surprised  _you_  remember. Since when did you ever pay attention to lessons? Since when did you even come to class?"

I close my eyes and dismissively shake my head. That was supposed to be a graceful preface to ease him into the information I'm about to drop on him but it only seems to confuse him. Fuck it.

"Peeta was never really in love with me."

I give him a moment to process it. I don't look at him. I can see him in the periphery of my vision, staring blankly, possibly sorting out if I'm speaking in some kind of code and there's some other meaning to what I'm saying.

"So you...what, just assume this because you're still on that guilt trip about him 'seeing you as you really are?'" he says skeptically. "Because you're really selling yourself short there, Katniss."

"No, Gale, I mean he was never really in love with me. I mean. I don't think. I don't know, we...started developing a unique bond, but that was more recent. But that whole story about loving me since we were five? All smoke and mirrors. The whole thing was an act."

"Katniss, that doesn't make any sense. Why would he have said all the things he said to you in Thirteen, then? He acts like he's really been played."

"Yeah, that's the thing. His memories are all twisted up and I think...like, when he has his episodes...I think it's because he can't distinguish which parts of him are  _him_  and which ones are his cover. You know, like that amnesiac spy we read about who unwittingly lived for like eight years as one of her old cover personalities, because she thought that's who she really was? Only with him, it comes and goes. I still have yet to figure out if this will expedite his recovery in the long run. Most of the memories the Capitol tampered with are based in fiction, so we can only hope."

Gale's breathing is uneven. He's still gaping at me. Then I see his expression harden, his body stiffening defensively. "And you just omitted telling me this whole time?"

"Technically it  _was_  classified information," I say, shooting him my best chastising glare. He was never entitled to this information, and surely Gale of all people can understand why it would be dangerous for him to know anyway. "Even I didn't know until our Victory Tour. That's when he finally told me. It's not exactly like it would have been safe to fill you - or anyone - in."

He relaxes slightly, but he's still glaring at me. "Who else knows?"

"Just you. This information is only on a need-to-know basis. I'd say about now, you need to know."

"Not even Haymitch? Or Prim?"

" _Especially_  not Haymitch or Prim."

Gale huffs out a little laugh and shakes his head, staring vacantly at the ground as he falls into a reflective silence. Probably replaying every one of our interactions in the Games through his head, and how Peeta responded to me after coming to Thirteen. Trying to look at it from this new perspective. He seems skeptical. But in our defense, we  _were_  pretty convincing.

"You feel betrayed."

He shakes his head again, chewing on his bottom lip. "Not like I'm in any position to feel that way," he says. Then he looks back up at me, and a renewed urgency heats his eyes. "That's what frustrates me the most about it, though. You were right about that, how I can't even imagine the things you had to do to survive the arena. How it changes your life. And now the political fallout - I feel like that was what really separated us the most. How you've gone through this unspeakable trauma and I can't even - I can't even empathize with that. ...But  _he_  can."

"To be fair, he spun this whole thing under the assumption that he wasn't coming back out. Give him a little credit where it's due. There's no way he could have anticipated both of us getting to live and causing the political shitstorm of the century."

Gale falls silent again, a deep crease pinching his brow. I recognize this expression. He's turning something over in his head, trying to consider how he phrases the next thing he says. I brace myself, fully expecting him to ask me why I didn't just kill Peeta when I had the chance, but instead it's -

" _Why would he make that sacrifice for a complete stranger?_ "

 

_**[AND THEN]** _

 

I squint at the faint glow of the clock on the wall panel and see I've been asleep for three hours. I feel like I haven't slept at all. My head feels foggy like I've been drugged, and I have that lingering restlessness and unease that accompanies a night fraught with nightmares. I don't remember any of them, but I have a vague sense of confusion and unfinished business, like if I'd stayed in the nightmare long enough, I might have resolved something. I think those nightmares are the worst; it's easier to get closure when you can put a name to what was trying to kill you. Otherwise you spend the entire day struggling to reach a memory that's just out of grasp, feeling perpetually haunted and not knowing why.

District 11 was...unexpected.

Like an idiot, I spoke from my heart. I thought it would mitigate the situation, considering this is exactly what I assumed Snow asked of me. I'm supposed to be playing the vulnerable young girl, less calculating rebel. It wasn't until after that man was shot on the verandah that I understood I'm only allowed to speak from my heart when it concerns Peeta.

Some familiarity sparks within me when I think on it, as though whatever nightmare roused me was related to that incident somehow. Eleven...they were rioting in the dream, I can just recall it as though watching a scene unfold through a fogged window. But they were after  _me_  for some reason. Because I had betrayed them somehow.

On second thought, I'd rather not remember the dream.

Honestly, I'd prefer a drink.

I try to remember what it was they served us in Eleven at dinner - it was a stiff drink, medicinal in profile. The flavor was vaguely reminiscent of my childhood. Some herb my mother cultivated to remedy stomach and menstrual pains. I close my eyes and inhale through my nose as if I can still smell it, grasping in the dark at a distant memory until it comes to me. ... _Anise_. Anise and whiskey, somehow syrupy sweet and bitter at the same time. Admittedly I almost choked on my first sip, but then the entire drink was gone before I knew it and under the immediate cloudy haze that settled in, I found myself oddly craving another.

I wouldn't know the first thing about replicating it, but I'm certainly not getting back to sleep, so I grudgingly haul myself out of bed with the dining compartment in mind. The moment I'm on my feet, I wonder if I'll even make it out of my room. I feel heavier than usual, like my bones are made of lead. I have yet to figure out if this is the aftereffects of the nightmares or the liquor.

I quickly abandon my ambitions of a drink though, because I hear a scream that sounds unmistakably like Peeta coming from one of the compartments opposite mine.

I'm snapped into alertness now, and I feel my reflexes slipping into autopilot. I'm the hunter in the woods outside 12 again; a trained combatant selected to kill in the arena. I'm running on instinct, prepared for a fight.  _He must have been found out_ , I think. Someone must have overheard his plans, must have found out about him tampering with the surveillance and they're going to kill him.

I burst through the door with so much force that I break the latching mechanism. It's dark inside and I have to blink rapidly to let my eyes adjust, and I'm hyperalert now with the sudden perceived danger of bursting into a dark room with no plan and no weapon. But through the dim light of the hallway filtering in, I can see that Peeta is in no danger. He's alone, twitching and struggling against the blankets that have managed to get twisted around him, trapping him. His scream died off in a choked whimper that settles into swallowed moans behind clenched teeth.

I'm not really sure what to do here. I suddenly feel stupid and intrusive, and I wonder if he'd be uncomfortable with me seeing him like this. Do I just leave and give him privacy, or do I wake him out of it?

I start to retreat, but then I think of all the times I've woken up unrested, all the days I've struggled through because I feel like I'm moving in slow motion underwater because the nightmares have taken so much control of my nights since the arena.

So I haltingly approach the bed and reach out to touch his shoulder. "Peeta," I say softly.

He doesn't respond, so I grip his shoulder to hopefully still his thrashing, but he stiffens, the one arm that isn't restrained by the bedding coming up in a defensive position, fighting against me.

I don't know what makes me think to do it, but I immediately change course. I let go of him and say, "I came to finish you off, sweetheart."

He stops struggling, his brows knitting together as the moans trapped in his throat die off. He's fighting to the surface, I can see it in his face, can feel a remnant of the way that expression feels on my own face from all the times I've realized I'm in a dream and make the conscious effort to force myself awake. It's like being tossed underwater, fighting through murky depths and suffocation just to remember which way is up, finally pinpointing the kaleidoscope of sunlight through the haze and you can't break the surface fast enough.

His eyes crack open just a little, his hand feebly working its way out of dream-logic muscle memory to find me, to latch onto an anchor to the real world.

"Well, don't step on me," he mumbles, then his eyes snap completely open as he realizes what he's saying.

Confusion flickers across his face, and he tries to shift and sit up, but finds himself still wound up in the blankets. The lamp by the bedside is mercifully controlled by a dimmer, and I ease the light up just enough to see what I'm doing as I untangle him. He watches me calmly as I straighten the sheets out, his hand rubbing at the place where his artificial leg meets flesh. It must be bothering him, or he's still feeling some vestigial pain from the memory of it in the dream.

"Katniss?" he says, unsure. Puzzled as to why I'm here, probably. Or if I'm really here at all. "Is everything okay?"

"I heard you scream. You were - you seemed pretty deep in it," I say apologetically, as though afraid he'll chastise me for intruding and I need some excuse for being here.

All he does instead is close his eyes and mutter an exhausted  _Thank you_.

It's only about a second and a half of silence, but it's still unbearably awkward for me and something feels really inappropriate about just leaving, so I ask, "Is your leg bothering you?"

He startles a little as though just noticing he's clutching at it and pulls his hand away. "Not - not really. It just...when my mind's idle, sometimes I feel like it's still there. My old leg, like it's cramped up and needs to be stretched, or it itches or feels cold or is still injured. Doctors say there isn't really anything to be done about it, but hopefully it'll fade over time."

I search around in the back of my mind for the term for this, because I know of this ailment. My mother treated survivors of mine explosions who had lost limbs and suffered the same effects.  _Phantom pains_. It seems especially cruel in nature, because at least discomfort from an existent source can be somewhat remedied. Salve, herbs, ice, massage. But how do you treat something that isn't even there? Helpless and trapped in your pain, indefinitely. I feel a stab in my chest at the mere thought of it. Even the Capitol and their wealth of technology and medical advancements couldn't solve this for Peeta.

"Oh no," I whisper. "Is there anything I can do?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "Don't worry, it'll pass."

 _Now what_. I guess I've done about everything I came here to do - protect him from his assailants, in a sense - and all I can do now is wait for him to say something else, but he's still breathing a little heavily, still coming down from the exertion of the nightmare.

"Would you like me to stay or do you prefer to be alone?" I ask, cringing internally because I think maybe I'm not allowed to ask this, but it feels wrong to just bid him goodnight and leave.

He lifts up on his elbow, adjusting the blankets over him as he fixes me with what I think is a surprised but approving expression. "Would you mind? Staying, I mean," he says, then amends quickly - "Only if you're truly comfortable with it, though."

Honestly, I'm still shaken from Eleven and I think Peeta is too. Neither of us really needs to be alone right now. So I don't even hesitate. I close the door as best I can with the damaged latch and timidly shuffle under the blankets with him. I'm immediately flooded with the clean scent of whatever he showered in before bed, amplified by the heat trapped under the covers as they settle down over us. A pleasant rush of cedar and white tea and mint. I take a deliberate slow breath through my nose just to indulge it, that scent invoking such vivid feelings of warmth and security that I have to suppress the urge to chase it into the crook of his neck where it seems it would be the strongest.

"If it's good enough for that cave, it's good enough for here, right?" I say instead, hating the way my cheeks burn when he glances down at me as I settle my head onto the pillow.

This is so different, though. There are no cameras here, no audience to play. And now we're both in on the ruse. We're not threatened with immediate death or hobbled by pain and desperation. It's as genuine and organic as it could possibly be, but somehow it feels...not  _wrong_ , per se, but forbidden somehow. A luxury rather than a necessity, like neither of us deserves this. Or that it's too much like compliance, allowing the ruse to skirt too close to reality. A betrayal, of sorts, but to whom or what, I don't know.

Peeta seems a little preoccupied by my proximity though, and when he jerks away from my arm brushing his, I stammer out an awkward apology and scoot back. We're still so close that I see the way the fine hairs on his skin have raised up, a soft strawberry hue in the dim lamplight.

"It's okay," he reassures me, sporting a blush of his own. "I just - I'm not used to being touched, is all."

My heart sinks at this, because even though he didn't mention it outright, it invokes the subject of his terrible home life.  _Touched nonviolently_ , I amend in my head. Of course he doesn't live under the immediate threat of that anymore, but who all did he have in his life when he returned to 12? It's been months since the arena, he's got the glory of being a Victor, he could have...could have -

 _Taken any lovers he wanted, if he wanted them_.

I can't really sort out why this feels like a morbid thought. Perhaps the subtle understanding that he hasn't, that he's made the conscious choice not to. That he's lived this whole time in isolation. Nursing his demons alone.  _Like Haymitch_. Jesus. I really need to abandon this line of thought.

"So have you ever, uh, been with anyone sexually?" are the next brilliant words out of my mouth.

Thankfully, he laughs before I can regret them. "Uh...no, I'm. Still a virgin. You?"

"Yeah, same here," I say, wishing the pillow would swallow me whole. I really did not intend for the conversation to dovetail in this direction.

"It's funny, isn't it?" he says, settling back and turning on his side toward me. "How Victors become these total sex symbols when I have no idea how some of them live up to it."

I want to dig my heels in against this topic being discussed any further, but what he's saying is kind of relatable. For me, at least. But I figured surely Peeta would have an easy time of navigating that sort of thing.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

He huffs despondently, lowering his eyelids so that his lashes flush against his cheekbones. It makes him look especially demure, and I recognize the look of someone who has suddenly realized they've said too much. I'm about to tell him he doesn't have to continue if he's too uncomfortable, but he seems to find his resolve as though it's something he's been wanting to talk about for some time but didn't have anyone to tell.

"I don't know, maybe something's just wrong with me, that I'm worse at coping with the...the aftereffects or something. I just...you know, haven't had any, like, desire, I guess. I haven't really had a surplus of those urges since before the arena. And that's really unnatural for people our age, isn't it? Because - before the Games and all, I used to, uh - "

He pauses, his eyes shyly darting up toward me as though expecting reluctance, but instead he just sees my imploring expression. I give a small nod, encouraging him to continue.

"Well, I'd, you know. Like - stimulate myself, for stress relief or to help me sleep or whatever. And it's supposed to be good for you, besides. Endorphins and health and all that. But after the arena, I've found that...it's difficult. Just getting inspired to do it in the first place, and then, uh, maintaining it to the end."

He frowns. The corner of his mouth quirks uncomfortably, as though wondering if he phrased that tactfully enough.

"You have a hard time getting aroused and staying aroused when you masturbate," I translate, surprising him with my candor.

It isn't lost on me that I've built some manufactured reputation on being skittish around this kind of stuff. My reservations about propriety and dignity when we're on camera in front of thousands of strangers versus me being the child of a medic during a serious personal conversation notwithstanding. It is what it is.

He laughs nervously. "Uh. Yeah. It's...concerning."

"Well. If it makes you feel any better, I've had the same problem," I admit. Although I hadn't realized it until he mentioned it. But trying to recall the last time I did it myself...I honestly can't even remember. Too many intrusive thoughts, always too distracted to do anything but struggle to get a full night's sleep. It really is a mood killer.

"I can't even imagine what it must be like for all the other Victors," he muses. "Being sole survivors of their Games and all. That's gotta take some kind of toll. It caused a whole lot of problems, but I think there's some small hidden blessing in us at least coming out of ours together. So we're not alone in it. We at least have emotional support in each other."

There's a tightening between my ribs at this, the shock of the insight paired with how subtly heartfelt it is. Of course he says it with the directness of pragmatism, but it's still...maybe not  _romantic_ , but...passionate. But then I also feel a queasy twist of guilt, because I failed to catch on to my end of the bargain and condemned him to a life he seems to have wanted out of.

"Do you think people assume that's why I wouldn't kill you?" I ask, my heart giving an uncomfortable shudder as I feel my face blanch. "That I did it all out of some selfish need for support or to avoid becoming a pariah?"

"So what if they do?" he says, tentatively reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair away from my face. "Fuck 'em. No one's opinion matters. Even if that  _is_  why you did it, it isn't selfish at all. That's a totally justifiable motivation. Can you imagine the horrible life you'd live back in Twelve if you'd killed me or left me to die? I'd never want you to be subject to such torture. I wouldn't blame you, if that was the inspiration behind it all. But it wasn't...was it?"

It's not a genuine question, but said frankly as though he already knows the answer. I'm beginning to think he gives me too much credit. But he's right. The threat of being ostracized in 12 wasn't the only reason. I'm about to say " _I owed you and I don't like debts going unpaid_ " but I anticipate Peeta disapproving of this logic, so I don't voice it. In truth, that  _is_  just a cop-out excuse and I think Peeta is perceptive enough to call me out on it. But I also still haven't been able to sort out what my motivations were, myself. Maybe it was a little bit of the debts owed thing, and a little bit of the pariah thing too.

But it's so much deeper than that. Basic human decency, for starters. I was motivated by the same innate thing that inspired Peeta to throw the bread to a dying stranger in his yard. And yes, rebellion as well. Because there's something especially perverse about an entity that plays up a romance amidst the slaughter of innocent kids only to force the famed lovers to kill each other all in the name of entertainment. And I'm not a fan of broken promises or rescinded agreements. It's sloppy, and shows weakness on the part of our government. Of course I had to exploit that. They made us out for fools for playing into the changed rules, so why shouldn't I have responded in kind? It was only fair.

I don't know how to express this succinctly to Peeta, but I think he understands all this already.

"I really am glad you rescued me," he says softly, and I know he's just being sincere, that's why his eyes have locked onto mine with such intensity, but this curious instinct unravels within me and I'm moving in without even thinking about it, brushing my lips against his because it just feels appropriate.

It feels as natural and effortless as that kiss in the cave, or yesterday when Peeta made his speech in 11. A genuine display of my appreciation for his kindness. But it's so different from usual, too. Again, this isn't a part of the charade, no one's watching. We're not under the burden of proving anything to anyone. It feels rather nice, and it's a shame because I think maybe I've crossed some boundary or done something extremely uninvited and totally parsed the situation incorrectly, but his lips respond to me in an instant, warm and welcoming and chaste.

I don't know what makes me think of it, but I'm reminded of before the Games, that one night after training when I'd gotten lost in the performative nature of our friendship, confused about when we're supposed to be putting on a show and when we're not.  _Don't let's pretend when there's no one around_. I think that's what I said to him. I told myself it was a means of distinguishing when to remain vigilant while being monitored and when we're allowed to relax during brief moments of privacy, but in retrospect I realize it's because I was too afraid to cultivate a meaningful relationship with him in the event that I had to kill him. Or in the event that he eventually betrayed me. Or, even worse - in the event that any attachment I develop to him is exploited by the Capitol. Which is simultaneously exactly what happened and something I never in my wildest dreams would have anticipated, because even that seems too depraved for them. Or so I thought.

But we're under no obligation to pretend just now, and maybe that's why it's so forbidden. And then his mouth opens against mine, he's latching onto my bottom lip and his fingers are shyly dancing over my side and he makes this  _sound_  - this helpless little sound in the back of his throat, small and delicate and unbidden, a hybrid of a moan and a whimper. Vulnerable and a little needy.

I don't know why it happens, but this causes some abandoned, hibernating creature within me to curiously uncoil, a strange thrill lurching within my rib cage. I want to... _what_? I have some subconscious urge to do  _something_ , but I'm not really sure where to go from here.  _Bite_ , is what my instinct tells me. But that can't be right. I don't know why this has inspired me to behave like a predator around live prey, but I ignore it and just let Peeta indulge himself. Make myself as pliable as possible when his arms slide around me and wrap around tight, his fingers grasping feebly at my back, and then he makes that fucking  _sound_  again and I can't help my groan when that predator lurches inside me again.

His breathing slows, I can feel his lips trembling, and his hand flattens against my back as he presses me closer, a choked-off moan grinding out of him because he's out of breath already. I'm a little disappointed when he pulls away, but he seems genuinely overwhelmed, his breathing a little labored and a flush to his cheeks that's probably more exertion than shyness. 

"Fuck," he gasps. "Sorry. I just - I think I've just realized how touch-starved I am. Didn't mean to get carried away."

That predator lunges again. I think my muscles actually stiffen, and am I -  _salivating_? What the  _fuck_. I'm starting to suspect that I have some weird fetish for vulnerability, and admittedly it is  _obscenely_  becoming on him. A part of me just admires the fact that he's so honest about it and unafraid to show it. Another part of me feels a twinge of empathetic sorrow for him, because  _of course_  he's touch-starved. The way he reacted when I just brushed against him, how he's had too many opportunities to get conditioned into expecting some kind of harm befalling him any time someone gets close. Of course we've shared plenty of intimate moments, but those were all staged; instances where he was likely too preoccupied with the performance to really allow himself to appreciate it.

This should be an awkward, fumbling moment now, where we both avoid eye contact and mumble apologies, but that strange little animal in me has taken over and all I really want to do now is comfort him.

"S'okay," I say, and I'm surprised at how low and reedy my voice is. "It was nice. You didn't have to stop."

His eyes fix apprehensively on mine, and I almost gasp at how dark they look, how dilated his pupils are. He looks a little drunk. I  _feel_  drunk. Or - dizzy, not completely in control of my faculties.

"You're sure?" he asks.

I give an encouraging nod, and to underscore the point, I slide my arm around him and tug him closer. His arms are immediately tightening around me again, his heart drumming heavily against me. He's -  _shaking_  a little, and I don't know if it's from nerves or overstimulation, but his muscles are tense as though he's still afraid this isn't allowed. But eventually he relaxes into it, his face nuzzling into my shoulder as his fingers knead my spine.

" _God_ , that feels good," he mumbles against me.

And fuck, does it ever. I discover I've been a little in need of this too. It's a strange new kind of relief, like medicine for an ailment I didn't even know I had. I can only imagine how intense it must feel for Peeta, then. It's a remarkably foreign pleasure; this comforting warmth of being cocooned in each other's body heat, the reliable beat of his heart slowing into a soothing tempo that's enough to make me drowsy. Then his breathing slows again and his palms are softly stroking over my skin, like he's mapping it out that way, and it dawns on me that he's an incredibly tactile person, drawn to exploring new textures. I can tell in the way he absently sifts my hair between his fingers, how he traces the bones of my spine, how he rubs the fabric of my tank top between his fingertips. It's a chaste, idle petting, subtle touches that are soft enough to be a little hypnotic.

My mind starts to wander. I keep revisiting our training before the Games, recalling so many of our interactions from back then with renewed insight. So many benign little quirks about him that I didn't notice, that in retrospect were glaring giveaways to the shrewd espionage expert he turned out to be. The incident with the red-haired Avox girl. The way he so smoothly leaned against my door frame after dinner, sharp as a tack and knowing I had some valuable information to tell.

 _So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here_.

And then the way he so easily read the urgency in me to tell someone about my secret without me even having to say a thing, the way he so artfully made an excuse to go somewhere we wouldn't be overheard without raising suspicion that we were being intentionally secretive. Just the way he effortlessly picked up on the danger of me recognizing the girl in the first place, that he could somehow tell I wasn't mistaken and did genuinely know her from somewhere, and how quickly and easily he defused the situation, how  _convincing_  he was in it, no less. How the fuck could I not have recognized his shrewdness even then? It seems all I've ever done is underestimate Peeta, because he keeps surprising me, even retroactively.

Then I'm remembering the stations in the training center, the camouflage expert, the way I bristled unnecessarily at Peeta's skill with the clay and juices. I'd said something dismissive and needlessly condescending like  _If only you could frost someone to death_  when he confessed he honed this skill from icing the cakes. And then he'd gone on and used that very skill to keep himself undetectable in a mud bank for days.

 _Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying_ , he'd said cryptically when I finally managed to find him.

 _Crafty bastard_ , I almost mumble aloud, then remember where I am and find myself close to dropping off to sleep. I think Peeta may already have, because his breathing is soft and even against my neck, his face still tucked peacefully against my shoulder. His idle fidgeting has stopped, so I'm a bit startled when he speaks again.

"If you want me to let go so you can get comfortable, just tell me," he says.

It takes a few seconds to find my voice. I'm sure he can feel the way my heart slightly ratcheted up. "I'm comfortable this way," I say truthfully.

His hand slides up to give the back of my neck a delicate squeeze, and it's almost imperceptible, but he's just slightly rubbing his lips back and forth against my pulse spot, light ghosting movements that could be mistaken for his breathing, and it feels so impossibly good that I shudder a little. I get the impression this isn't even done for my pleasure, but rather for his. Indulging his unique texture infatuation that I've picked up on. It's strangely endearing.

And then he's stroking me again - a palm smoothing over my side, fingertips pressing into my back, arms gently squeezing around me at sporadic intervals as he nudges his nose into the junction of my neck and shoulder. It's a world of pleasure I've never been exposed to before, and even though his hands never stray anywhere inappropriate, it feels painfully intimate and private all the same. Of course I've huddled close to Gale on cold hunts before, dozed off with his arms around me, but it was never like  _this_. This is something entirely new, more intense, and when I feel that near-alien twinge between my legs, I try to ignore it. It's only fleeting, gone as soon as it appears, but I don't miss how my nipples have hardened, how my skin is buzzing with the approval of what he's doing, craving more of it.

This will escalate quickly if I don't find some way to ground myself, because I feel that infernal predator in me taking root already, clouding my judgment.

"So how'd you get so good at this stuff?" I ask quickly, startling him into freezing and pulling back a little to eye me curiously.

"I - uh, I don't know, am I? I've never touched a girl like this before," he says, eyes darting downward.

I wince, but can't help my smile. "No, not -  _this_ ," I say, a small laugh bubbling up my throat. "I mean the..." I pause and gesture helplessly, searching for the word I need. I remember overhearing it somewhere, a news broadcast or maybe even Gale talking about it. "Counterintelligence," I say, finally grasping it among hazy memories.

A shadow darkens his face, but vanishes so quickly that I might have imagined it. He fidgets with my shoulder for a second, fingers wrapping around my upper arm as he smooths his thumb back and forth over my skin, something pensive in the gesture.

"Living with someone like my mother - " he begins, then breaks off. Honestly, that fragment alone speaks volumes, but he continues: "Living with a...a narcissist. It can be volatile. You learn early on that evasion and bluff are the best - the  _only_  - survival tactics. I'm not exactly proud of it. Being so good at...deception. People in the Capitol see it as a talent to be celebrated. In my world, it's an unfortunate but necessary means of self-preservation. And isn't that quaint? The one skill I picked up that saw me survive my childhood was sufficient to satisfy the demands of drama and entertainment for these people," he says bitterly.

That sounds so strikingly like something I would say that I find myself at a loss for an eloquent response, marveling at how he manages to so easily articulate the same muddled thoughts I've had for months. When his eyes flick back up to mine, there's something pleading in there, and I recognize his unwillingness to entertain the subject any further. This is remarkable because I've at least come to understand Peeta enough to know that he's a generally open person, hardly any topics make him uncomfortable. But he's uncomfortable now.

I do the only thing I know how to do. I lean in and kiss him, nothing disingenuous or performative about it. I think he might actually be close to tears, and the half gasp-hiccup that comes out of him in response only confirms this. I softly press my lips to the corner of his mouth, his jaw, a quick brush against his neck. He squeezes me and I squeeze him back.

"Thank you," he whispers. " _Oh_ , thank you. Thank you for doing this. You don't - you don't have to, you know - "

"I know. But I want to."  _You poor thing_ , I almost say, but even in my head, it sounds condescending. Makes it sound like I just see him as a charity case, and that's not why I'm doing this. I can't exactly pinpoint a specific  _reason_  why, but that's not it.

And why am I thinking about the bread again? It ate at me for so long, and even now it's an uncomfortable annoyance like a pebble in my shoe, gnawing at me as if it's still unresolved even though he answered me openly when I asked him about it.

But it's not the bread that's bothering me. I think my subconscious had just turned it into a metaphor for a much bigger question I'd refused to even ask myself.

"Why did you dedicate so much effort to ensuring I survived the Games?" I ask before even making the conscious decision to voice it aloud. By extension, I'm still dwelling on the  _easy out_  comment from earlier too, but I already know that's a sensitive topic just now, so I avoid asking about it directly.

He's silent, jaw working like he's actually chewing on his answer. It doesn't seem out of reticence, either, but more out of a shred of uncertainty of his own on why he did it.

"Just...why go through all that trouble if you were just going in with the intention of...you know, of killing yourself. There was no benefit in it for you."

"Maybe not for  _me_ ," he says. He shifts backward, settling his head on the pillow as he searches my face, his expression distantly perplexed. "Do you really not know how essential you've been to Twelve over the years? Not just keeping us in food, but other little things, like a ripple effect that improves overall life in the district. You sell meat to Rooba, she has a better selection, she can be more agreeable on negotiations, which in turn leads to better trades for all of the merchants, which in turn puts more food on more tables for everyone in the district. You help keep the Hob in business, which stimulates the district's economy. That goat you got your sister, the cheese she makes from it, can make a world of difference in completing a family's meal for the night. I'm too young to remember, but my father talks about it sometimes - how tedious life was in Twelve before you and your friend started hunting. Even the Peacekeepers are less authoritarian because you've made their lives better, in some small way. You may not believe it, but we'd likely be living like District Eleven if it weren't for your efforts."

I get the impression of my talents being exaggerated, like when Peeta told Haymitch of my skill before the Games. 12 is a small district, but I'm still insignificant in scope. There's no way I've had that much influence. I feel like I'd notice if I did. It's a little daunting, too, because that's a lot of pressure if it's true. The idea that I'm sustaining all life in the district and that something happening to me would result in disastrous effects for everyone else. Ironically, the whole thing parallels to the story I told Peeta in that cave.  _I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. The goat_ has _paid for itself. Several times over_. Christ.

"You've certainly kept my family in food during rough weeks," he says, as though sensing my doubt. "I knew that if you came back, you'd stay true to your purpose. Only you'd have a lot more money to do it with. You winning the Games would have benefit all of Twelve, and it isn't like you didn't already have a very real chance at winning. I just wanted to...facilitate that. My last spiteful action on my way to my death."

"And then what?" I whisper. "Start the revolution all on my own?"

He flashes a fiendish smirk. "Something like that. Imagine how deadly Twelve's tributes would be after you became a mentor. The district could have an entire army of skilled hunters by now, but here you are rolling around in bed with the likes of  _me_."

Oh that's not  _fair_.

Probably because it rings with a little bit of truth. Where would I be right now if Peeta had died in there? Swallowing my guilt by doing what I've always done, trying to busy myself with hunting, too pissed to care about rules or the threat of punishment and taking in all the kids from that community home, guiding them through the woods, teaching them to forage and hunt so they could have some hope of a sustainable life after aging out of its care. It's not like I hadn't considered it before. I never dared speak a word of this to Gale, but I think Peeta dying in the arena, coupled with me being forced to play that sick game in the first place and saddled with the trauma of it would have been the final inspiration that got me to commit to an idea I'd been turning over for months.

I'd have had my own personal militia of Careers, in a way. Trained with stealth and survival rather than brute strength.

But I don't admit this to Peeta now.

"I really wouldn't have handled your death well," is all I can manage to answer.

"I know. It's why I went to great lengths to ensure you weren't the one that had to do the honors. I'm fine now, though, really. I just - I shouldn't get into it now, but you have to understand, I was in a...a really bad place. When my name was drawn." He takes a slow, thoughtful breath, seeming to consider whether he wants to divulge more. "I was already planning on attempting it anyway. I just wanted out. All the concussions, the constant ache of the bones that have healed improperly, the embarrassing reflexes developed along the way - it's not any way to live. I'd already gone out to the woods to find..." he trails off, shrugging as though it's inconsequential in scope.

This is so especially haunting, knowing that he was already laying out plans to kill himself before he was granted the convenience of having the Capitol do it for him. But there's something else that sticks out - that he'd gone out to the woods to find... _what_?

I remember the nightlock berries from the arena, how Peeta accidentally killed Foxface because he'd inadvertently tricked her into thinking they were safe. His too-innocent reaction to my frustration with him, how smoothly he bluffed his way out of that one by feigning alarm that Cato had killed her and would be coming for us. Even that flawless little bluff of offering me some, knowing no harm would befall me because I'd recognize them anyway.

How he hadn't answered my signal because he was too busy finding an isolated place to kill himself so I wouldn't have to do it for him.

Indignant heat flares in my chest, I'm  _angry_ , and it takes me a minute of organizing my thoughts to really determine why. At first I think it's an affront to all the trouble I went through to save him and keep him alive, fumbling blindly in the dark and hoping my trial and error didn't kill him; but that's not it. It's that he was just going to survive  _all that_  and get so close to the end only to wander off and kill himself with no fanfare or warning, not even a goodbye. He was going to just leave me to the surprise of the cannon shot, to find his body in the fucking bushes.

"You - " I gasp, breathless and feeble because I feel as if all the air has been knocked out of me. I swallow, gulp down a shaky breath and scoot backward a little. "You were just going to - to - you  _fucking_  - "

His face has softened into a painful mix of regret and apology. He must see the revelation in my expression, must have seen my eyes darken as I sorted it out. He knew damn well those berries were lethal. I bet he never would have come clean about it, either. It's so trivial now, shouldn't even matter, but for some reason it does to me. What's even worse is that he doesn't even bother to defend himself, to explain. He's just infuriatingly silent, because of course he understands why I'm angry and feels I'm justified in it.

"Why are you always such a fucking saint!" I shout, shoving the heel of my hand into his shoulder. It's embarrassingly weak, as is my voice, because it's hinged on a sob. "It's fucking exhausting, just quit it!"

This is absolutely not the reaction I intended to have. But through the blur of tears that have just sprung into my eyes, I can see Peeta's face darken into something I can only describe as lethal.

"I am no saint," he says, his voice so low and sinister that a chill crawls over my skin. "Don't give me credit where it isn't due."

This just makes me angrier. As if he's ever done anything unjust in his life. Implying he's capable of unspeakable things when it's the most asinine thing I've ever heard. I want to arrogantly tell him that unwarranted guilt doesn't count, that even when he spent so much time essentially lying to me, it was coming from a place of nobility, a selfless act to keep thousands of strangers safe. But instead I'm just replaying things in my head, old memories resurfacing that I usually don't visit unless I have to, when I'm asleep. It's like my whole life for the past few months is playing in reverse, and I'm rewatching the Games but from this new perspective, suddenly seeing all the clues he dropped, all the true meanings behind the things that were said that in hindsight, I'm berating myself for having not noticed.

_Thanks, I'm much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?_

How did I not instantly translate that when we were in the arena?  _May I die in peace now, Katniss?_

 _For all I know, I am killing you_ , I'd said to him at one point. How genuinely pleading his voice was when he'd responded.  _Can you speed it up a little?_

 _Tell me about the happiest day you remember_.

 _Yeah, about that. Don't try something like that again_.

 _Don't die for me, you won't be doing me any favors_.

My cheeks are suddenly wet and my vision is blurry. It's all so fucking tragic and I'm only appreciating it retroactively, angry and frustrated at all the things I missed and humiliated for it because I'm supposed to be  _furious_  right now, I'm supposed to be scolding him. It's even worse because I fully understand that my anger at him is unfair and selfish. I'm also uncomfortably confused, because I'm trying to sort out why he was still playing up the ruse so effortlessly then, when he should have been too distracted to bother with the whole romance angle, what with dying and all. He was so feverish, delirious, desperate - probably terrified out of his mind and grasping at some semblance of fleeting intimacy to comfort himself in an otherwise agonizing death. And he still managed to squeeze in little hints that I should hurry up and get on with winning the Games and leave him to die, to stop prolonging his suffering, but I was too stubborn to listen.

Christ, that just makes it worse.

My silent tears have evolved into those hysterical choking sounds I make when I sob, and I think the full weight of it is just hitting me, how genuinely close to dying he was then, and how readily he welcomed it. It lends too heavy of an insight to his whole personality, his whole  _life_ , and I'm not exactly equipped to handle it gracefully.

Stupidly, uselessly, I think back to that moment at the camouflage station again, the way I'd wondered how the hell he could replicate a tree so realistically when I'd doubted he'd ever seen one like that in real life. Even that little interaction was a subtle tell that I should have seen right through from the very start. A hint that he'd been out to the woods, that he'd stuck around long enough to get a good idea of its shading and textures. I think I was so annoyed with him then because my subconscious was already starting to work it all out, catching all these cues that something didn't match up with him, and I was really just frustrated with myself for not allowing myself to acknowledge it.

"How would you even know about the berries?" I mumble, too drained to resist when he delicately starts swiping the tears from my cheeks with his thumb.

"We make berry pastries, Katniss," he says, as though it should be obvious. "Where do you think we got the berries? Of course I have to know which ones are unsafe. Poisoning a district isn't exactly good for repeat business."

I guess it never occurred to me to think about where the merchants got some of their supplies. Gale and I could only provide so much, but not nearly enough to provide everyone with the full stock of necessities. I wonder how many other merchants broke the law to get their hands on rare ingredients. I wonder how I never managed to bump into Peeta when I went outside the fence, myself. He's not exactly stealthy. Or fuck, maybe he is and he's just good at lying about that, too. I feel so exceptionally stupid now for missing a lot of things that should have been obvious, so I turn my back to Peeta and sulk into the pillow, not wanting him to see my face. After a while, his arm tentatively slides around me, and he pulls up behind me so that his chest is flush with my back, tucking his knees behind mine. He's a little tense, as though expecting me to tell him to back off and fully prepared to comply if that were my demand.

But I want him there, even if I'm too upset to admit it just yet.

"I really do feel awful about all of it," he whispers.

"Did you know? I ask suddenly, my words a little slurred because I've cried myself into a heightened state of exhaustion when I was already on so little sleep to begin with. "About the Gamemakers defaulting on the rule change? You did, didn't you? That's why you were so adamant about being allowed to die. You knew it was just a bluff the whole time."

"Know? Hmm. Not completely, but I suspected. I knew there'd be a catch. Nothing the Capitol does is without some morbid ulterior motive."

That should make me a little angry, too, because I  _do_  know that. Have always known that. Should have called it the moment Claudius Templesmith made that bullshit announcement in the arena. Peeta was just trying to soften the blow when the truth was finally revealed.

My anger ebbs into righteousness. I'm too exhausted to be mad right now, but ultimately, I feel even more justified in all the shit I stirred up to bring him out alive. I wasn't just saving the charitable boy with the bread, I wasn't just repaying a debt. I was preserving the life of a sly resistance fighter. What a waste it would have been if he'd died in that arena like he'd planned.

I'm about to say as much; I want to close with something snide just to spite him, because I've worked myself up into an argumentative mood and I'm frustrated at him always making it out like he's insignificant when he's been so crucial to the cause from the start.

He must predict this by the preparatory breath I take because he strokes my ribs to placate me, then gives my hip a playful squeeze.

"Save the diatribe for tomorrow when you've got the energy to make a serious impression," he says. "Get some rest, Katniss."

 

_**[AND NOW]** _

 

If Gale was withdrawn before, he's completely  _removed_  now.

I told him everything; considered omitting the awkward details, but went ahead and included those, too. Just to convey the point. Whatever it is - was - between Peeta and me, it was a unique friendship, an indefinable bond that made  _friend_  too cheap of a word, but  _lover_  feels a little melodramatic and inappropriate, too. I didn't hesitate to point out that the same could apply to Gale and me as well. He didn't have a rebuttal for that.

We set up traps around the perimeter of the area as I talked. I showed him the trap that the knot guy at the Training Center showed me that leaves an enemy dangling by a leg from a tree. Then we set up snares for food, so we might capture any scavengers lured by the smell of the bodies. We got a few rabbits in no time, and then we set to disposing of the bodies. The stream isn't near deep enough to dump a corpse; and unfortunately the ground this far north hasn't quite had the chance to fully thaw out from the winter, so burying them was out of the question.

It's the first time I've ever dismembered a body with a machete. It takes a lot more strength and energy than one might assume. Bones are  _tough_. It's grisly, but thankfully blood spray isn't much of an issue after they're dead. It turns out that the initial horror of the task subsides after the exhaustion of the monotonous physical exertion sets in, and that internal mantra of  _When does one stop being human_  fades into a detached observation that it really is just like skinning and sectioning fresh game. I can't help but think of Rooba, wondering if she's okay, wryly thinking about how much of a help she'd be in this situation.

I handled Jackson so Gale wouldn't have to, of course. He's been so detached following everything that's come to light that I doubt he's even fully aware of what we're doing, because every movement he makes is mechanical - the robotic, dazed movements of a person sleepwalking through their actions.

Amid Gale's reticence, I've had the chance to consider that this might be the most reprehensible thing I've done. I'm too drained to examine it right now, but later I'll have to confront the fine line we just tread between preemptive strike and self-preservation. The disrespect done to the bodies. If that really matters at all because it's a wasted concern - 13 and its rigid frugality with everything and lack of resources for proper burials likely would have had the remains processed into compost after they died, anyway. They were soldiers preparing for war, besides; this was an inevitable risk they knowingly took on when they volunteered.

For now, I rationalize it by reminding myself that we were caught by surprise after they intentionally backed us into a corner. Being soldiers from a district that's harbored shell-shocked refugees and trained for revolution for decades should have the good sense to be a little more cautious about sneaking up on traumatized rebels who have been conditioned with a feral survival instinct since birth - two of which are veteran killers who survived two arenas designed for slaughter. We could have handled the encounter a lot better, but ultimately, they knew what they were walking into. They made their choice.

I can't help but feel a little accomplished, regardless. You'd never know a couple of people were killed here. We dutifully scattered the pieces through the woods, covering some with pine needles and dirt, leaving some out for the scavengers for easy picking. Our plan with this is to use York and Jackson as leverage; if there's no evidence and 13 can't confirm their deaths, they can't confirm that they ever found us in the first place. If it comes down to it and we have to confront Coin again, we can negotiate with her on the grounds that her incompetent soldiers never found us and likely just got lost or marooned; but with two skilled hunter-trackers at her disposal, we might be able to work out a deal to locate and rescue them in return for Coin's cooperation.

It will likely never work, but it's certainly favorable over her knowing we killed them.

And then this leads me to the next grim thought I've been avoiding since we concocted this frivolous suicide mission:

"We have to go back for them," I say, staring numbly into the fire we've built to cook our food. The sun has just set, the chorus of insects has begun, and I spoke so softly that I'm unsure if Gale heard me over them.

Gale looks up at me, a glimmer of sentience lighting his eyes for the first time in hours. "Who?" he asks. I don't know why he asks this; he fucking knows who.

"All of them," I say hotly. "We just  _left_  them. You really think Coin isn't making their life a living hell for what we've done?"

"By all of them, you mean...?"

"Your family, my family, of course. Finnick. Annie. Johanna. Haymitch, Delly, my prep team - anyone that might have had any connection to us, all the ones who might be targeted because of what we did. I can't allow anyone to be punished over my actions, we at least owe them that much. Especially because they all had some part in ensuring we even made it this far." I hold up a silencing hand when he seems about to protest. "Don't even argue about this, Gale. We can't just abandon them there. If you think Coin's above torture, you haven't been fucking paying attention."

"I don't," he shoots back. "I was actually going to agree with you. I was just going to ask what your plan was. How would you even attempt going about that? Because I'll tell you right now, I don't have a fucking clue."

I'm surprised that he agrees, but I'm just as lost on working out a solution as well. Smuggling that many people out of the securest district in the country is an impossible feat. It would have to be nothing short of a raid, which we don't have the manpower or the skills to pull off. It's discouraging just to think about.

We don't have time to dwell on it though, because we hear a heavy thud and a litany of curses coming from the house where we stashed Peeta.

Gale and I meet each other's eyes for a few seconds, then simultaneously jump to action, approaching the shack with our hands poised on our weapons like Peacekeepers raiding an illegal weapons trade.

We walk into a surly-looking and disheveled Peeta, the muscles in his arms shifting dramatically as he hoists himself up from the floor and back onto the bed. He flashes us an annoyed glare before his eyes soften and avert downward.

"Clever," he says. "Very effective."

Neither of us says anything. I think we're both trying to sort out which Peeta is with us right now.

He breathes out a resigned sigh, then trains his eyes on me, but not in a threatening or confrontational way, just a sort of...approximation of apology. Maybe understanding. I release the lungful of air I didn't know I was holding.

"Sorry," I say softly. "It was needlessly cruel and inappropriate, but..."

"I might have killed you both." He shrugs it off, looking down as he massages his fingers into his stump before glancing back up at me. "That little move you did to counter when I attacked you - did I teach you that?"

I see Gale's face turn toward me in the periphery of my vision. A bitter smile quirks at the corner of my mouth.

"Yes. When we started training as Careers before the Quarter Quell. You started teaching me hand-to-hand combat. 'Being small can have its advantages. Use your opponent's own weight against them. Momentum is as effective as any weapon,'" I quote. "You remember?"

He shakes his head, squinting as though trying to recall saying that. "No. But I recognized the move. Remember using it myself, I think. Or the muscle memory of it. I don't know. The irony is pretty entertaining, though."

I know exactly what he means. That he gave me the weapon I'd eventually use to defend myself from him.

An awkward silence follows. We're unsure where to go from here, but then Peeta lifts his nose to the air. "Cooking something?"

The rabbits should be done by now; not much sense in wasting more time. I bump the back of my hand into Gale's shoulder, and he releases a small sigh before grudgingly going to retrieve Peeta's prosthetic.

"I hope you understand, we don't have a lot of options for dealing with...surprises," he says as he hands it back.

But the evening is full of surprises, it seems, because we hear the unmistakable  _fwip_  of one of our rope traps catching.  

There's an awkward scramble to investigate, and then we're peering outside, Gale and I simultaneously drawing our guns from our holsters as we form a protective barricade in front of Peeta. 

Dangling by one leg, wig fallen into the brush below her, is Effie Trinket. 

**Author's Note:**

> what are consistent chapter lengths? I don't know!
> 
> Thank you everyone for your wonderful comments, y'all the real MVPs


End file.
